The Hole
by dcat8888
Summary: Milt and Mark's latest case brings up prison memories that Mark would rather forget.


The Hole 

by dcat

Disclaimer: This is a Hardcastle and McCormick fanfic. These characters don't belong to me. 3-12-07

Rated: PG-13

Notes: We need the 'whump meter' for this story folks. (I don't know what's gotten in to me lately) It deals with prison violence (NOT a sexual nature, but some scenes are pretty violent, so if you don't go for this sort of thing, you may not want to read it.) And there's actually a crime in one of my stories….go figure. Any comments, questions or suggestions are always welcome. I love all the feedback and look at it as a way to improve my writing. I also want to especially thank Susan Zodin for another masterful job of beta reading and editing. Her feedback and suggestions always serve to make these stories much more reader-friendly.

Judge Milton C. Hardcastle charged over the familiar grounds of Gull's Way with Mark McCormick dawdling behind, attempting to wake himself up on this already hot July morning.

"Would you put it in gear, McCormick?"

"Judge, it's 6:30 in the morning! What is so damn important out here?" Mark answered, trying to catch up. "I already told you last night that I'd mow the lawn today."

"I'll show you when we get there, okay! This is something you haven't seen before. Just hurry up, would you, and quit asking questions."

"Judge, I've been on every inch of this property for months now, what could possibly be new to me? It's safe to say that I've seen it all," the young man laughed smugly. "And I'd really rather be sleeping, rather than be taking the Milton C. Hardcastle home and garden tour. Can I just go back up to the gatehouse and go back to bed?"

"No, but you could shut that fat mouth of yours up." By now the two of them were near the spot Hardcase was looking for. "I think it's behind here." McCormick stood back and tried to figure out what exactly the judge was looking at. He'd asked him a few months prior if he wanted any of this particular overgrowth trimmed back, and Hardcastle's reply had been short and terse as he told him to just leave that area alone. McCormick didn't have to be asked twice when it came to not doing something. This particular area of the estate had some old thick evergreen overgrowth which after all these years had obviously covered up whatever he was looking for now. Milt spotted a jagged rock partially exposed and stopped. "Here it is."

"Here's what? You brought me out here before dawn to look at a _rock_? I've seen it before, Judge. In fact I've tripped over it about a dozen times already. You know I asked you before if you wanted me to trim this back and you told me to leave it alone, remember? Wait a second, is this the entry to the Bat Cave? Is Adam West gonna pop out and surprise us?" McCormick asked, who was still thinking of sleeping in his bed as he bumped into Hardcastle, who had stopped walking. "What exactly are we looking at?" McCormick flailed his arms around as Hardcastle turned and gave him a glare.

"If you'd stuff a sock in that mouth of yours for just a second, I would tell you. Help me here, will you? That's why I brought you out here this morning."

"Help you with _what_?" Mark's voice went up an octave.

"With this," Milt started to clear away the overgrowth to reveal some sort of cave like/dug-out type structure. McCormick mimicked his activity and between the two of them, they cleared away the brush in a matter of minutes.

"What the hell is this? I guess I haven't seen everything here yet," McCormick stood back and scratched his head. How come you never told me about this before?" Mark asked. Now that his interest had piqued, his mouth began to run at top rpm. "You do have a secret hideaway? So it is true, every crime fighter has one!"

"Oh, sure... _now _you're interested," Hardcastle said in a mock tone. "I never told you about it, because it wasn't any of your business before," he added. He reached in his pocket and, pulling out a key ring, unlocked the steel door to the hidden structure.

"If you tell me you've got some buried treasure in here, I'm gonna clock you," McCormick said, following the judge into the tiny opening. Hardcastle ignored the comment and went inside. "Oh wait, I get it! This is the secret passage to the Green Hornet's nest? You really are a superhero!" Milt shook his head as the kid piled on joke after joke.

Once inside, Mark could see it was actually constructed from the surrounding earth. The walls were all stone and clay, and the floor was dirt.

"Well, what gives in here?" Mark asked again, peering inside from behind the judge.

Hardcastle pulled out a flashlight and shone it around the cave-like room. Along the back of the room someone had put in some metallic shelving units, and stored on the shelves were more of what appeared to be Hardcastle's infamous files. McCormick let out a hearty laugh.

"You've got to be _kidding _me, right? You have a secret room where you keep even more files? Are these the ones of the axe murders and serial killers? You really do think you're Batman after all--it's not just a dream of yours. One of these days you're going to show me the real bat phone and the infamous poles and eventually I'll get to be amazed by the Bat Cave too, right? Honestly, Judge, I've wanted to slide down those things since I was a kid."

"You know you're not funny at all--do you want to put a lid on the snappy repertoire? But yes, these are some more of my files," Milt started to explain. "This used to be a bomb shelter during World War II , wise guy...my wife's parents had it built. You've heard of World War II, right? You know December 7th, atomic bombs, that whole thing. See, this house is right on the coast, near a large area of population. They were pro-active, not reactive, during the war. If the big one was going to be dropped, they wanted to be ready."

Mark still stood near the doorway but took a step farther inside to try to get a closer look inside the dark enclosure. "Not to burst your bubble, Hardcase, but it's pretty damp inside your little shelter here. Your files are probably ruined."

"No, see, you're wrong about that. I didn't store them in cardboard. If you take a closer look, you'll see it only looks like cardboard. Those are hermetically sealed plastic. I've got a special tool to open them up."

McCormick walked over to the containers and saw that Hardcastle was indeed correct. As he stood there, the musty, damp aroma from the shelter invaded his memory and stopped him dead in his tracks. His mind was thrust back to San Quentin.

It was the damp, moldy smell that got to him.

_He wore wrist and leg shackles, and he was pushed down a long, cement, colorless hall. Cell number 103 opened up automatically and the Correctional Officer, Sergeant Padilla, shoved him unceremoniously into the nearly empty room. This area of the prison was known as 'the hole.' Segregation or Seg, one man to a cell, solitary confinement and McCormick was scared as hell. He never thought he'd ever wind up in the hole. This was supposed to be the area for the lunatics, the serial killers, guys that just liked to hurt other people, not for a smart mouth like himself. A room for one, one tiny cement bunk with a blanket, a toilet and one sink. It was not exactly the Ritz-Carlton. It wasn't even the flea-bitten room-by-the-week dumps down in the inner city. It was the hole, one step up from hell itself._

_McCormick felt the large hands of Padilla on his back once more, shoving him deeper into the cell, and he landed on the floor with a thud. Padilla stood in the doorway momentarily, hands on hips and the typical smirk of arrogance on his face. "Sixty days in the hole, McCormick," he said._

"_Sixty days? For what?" McCormick asked incredulously, trying to sit up a little and lean against the cement bunk. "You're really nuts, Padilla. I didn't do anything. You can't just put someone in here for nothing."_

"_They all say that when I bring them down to this little piece of paradise," Padilla laughed. "You can think about what you did for the next sixty days, I'm sure you'll come up with the reason. You're a smart guy, right?" He waved his arm to indicate to the cell guard to lock up cell 103 and the heavy steel door closed with a crash. "One thing is for sure," the guard added through its tiny window, "you won't go out the same way you went in."_

"_You're full of crap, Padilla," Mark shouted after him, "you're not gonna get away with this--you piece of garbage! I didn't start any fights, or try to kill anyone...you can't just put someone in here without a reason!" He sighed with frustration. Padilla was long gone and Mark was alone in the solitary cell. He glanced around his new surroundings. There was one bright light that he guessed was on some sort of timer. A three-inch window was cut in the steel door, with a smaller door built in, obviously for sending and retrieving his three squares a day. He tried to take in a deep breath, but all he smelled was the cold dampness, old urine, feces, and moldy food, which was caked onto the floor and walls. The tiny room had probably never been cleaned since it was built. What kind of animals had been living in here? Mark wondered. Or did guys like Padilla turn guys like him into animals? He looked over to see that both the sink and toilet were leaking. He shivered. It was that smart mouth of yours all over again, Skid, he said to himself. You really did it to yourself this time. Sixty freaking days. Sixty days of sitting here and thinking would kill him._

"So, where's the smart aleck remark?" the judge asked him, as he grabbed a box labeled '1968' and set it outside the bomb shelter. When no answer came, Hardcastle peered inside to see McCormick still standing in the same place, with an empty look on his face. "McCormick? Earth to McCormick. Listen, I know a lot of my past life astounds you, but the war is over, the good guys won, remember? It's just a storage room now, so enough with the faraway look, you want to give me a hand here?" He walked over to Mark and tapped his shoulder.

McCormick immediately shook off the memory and said, "What?"

"I said, I want '68 – '71 inside. We can put them into the garage till I find some room in the basement. So grab a year, will ya? I don't want to make this an all day project."

"Sure, I'll get 'em." McCormick grabbed a box and carried it toward the garage, his mind fixated back to San Quentin and a particular time he'd rather have kept buried.

_Sergeant Victor Padilla was known around the yard as the CO you didn't want to mess with. No one had specific stories to tell about him, because they all involved solitary confinement. He headed up the Seg unit. After Padilla targeted a con and threw him in the hole, when the con returned to general population, they had changed. They'd kept their mouths shut, giving the other inmates the impression that the lesson that Padilla had imposed had been indeed learned... and learned the hard way. There was no rhyme or reason to whom Padilla targeted. Sometimes it was a weakling, sometimes a gang leader, black, white, Hispanic, goof-offs, troublemakers, murderers, head cases, and even accused car thieves with smart aleck mouths. Anyone that got in his way, unfortunately had to get out the hard way. The only thing they shared was the end result. Padilla seemed to get his kicks from putting people in solitary. What he did to them there was between him and the con. Other CO's seemed to respect him for that or, at the very least, they stayed out of his way. He got positive results from his methods, so no one questioned him._

_Mark McCormick knew exactly what he did to incite Padilla and now he was about to pay the price. It was his mouth that got him into trouble and incidental contact that got him tossed in the hole._

McCormick had only been inside for about a month, since Judge Milton C. Hardcastle had sentenced him to two years for grand theft auto, and was quickly trying to pick up on what it took to survive his imposed sentence and get out. He hated every thing associated with being inside, and he vowed that once he got out, he wasn't ever coming back. Prison was like a community unto itself. Gangs pretty much ruled the world of inmates, and you latched on to whichever one you matched with. McCormick was fortunate to land in a cell with a guy named Paulie Abrogozzio. Paulie was doing 20 to life for second-degree homicide and had already been there for eight years. But he took Skid under his wing, so to speak, and showed him the ins and outs of the yard. Paulie knew Skid didn't really belong in prison, since his biggest 'crime' was his big mouth, so he tried to make sure the kid stayed on the straight and narrow and he made sure he got involved in the right activities--taking classes, working a job, playing baseball, bible study...all the things to keep him out of trouble and to make his two-year hitch pass by quickly and get him back out on the streets. The problem was that McCormick asked way too many questions, and opened up his mouth at the wrong time.

_CO's, for the most part, were trained to show respect to inmates by calling them Mr. so and so...and they'd be friendly---up to a point. But there was a fine line that wasn't to be crossed. You learned quickly who the good CO's were and who the bad CO's were. Anytime a CO made too nice-nice with a con, the problems erupted. And the problems were for the inmates, because no one ever took the word of an inmate over the word of a CO. That principle led to abuse within the prison._

_About the time Mark entered the pen, a new CO named Tom Lamparski was also assigned. Fresh out of training and eager to rehabilitate even the hardest of criminals, Lamparski was the complete opposite of Vic Padilla. McCormick and Lamparski actually struck up a sort of odd sort of friendship in a very short time. What Mark saw in Lamparski was a guy who treated everyone the same, until you gave him some reason to treat you differently. And he never aggressively hurt or punished an inmate, but he did what he had to do by the book to ensure the prison remained safe for all. McCormick respected that. In McCormick's book, he knew Lamparski still had the upper hand, because of the prison hierarchy, but Tom didn't abuse the situation. Vic Padilla did._

_It was too bad McCormick only knew Lamparski for a short time— less than a month. After he got out of the hole, the guard was gone. He'd heard through the grapevine that he transferred to another institution. McCormick surmised that San Quentin wasn't a place where anyone really wanted to be._

For the rest of the day, McCormick couldn't get the bomb shelter or the hole off his mind. The mere fact that the bomb shelter had conjured up bad memories from when he was inside left him feeling sort of angry towards Hardcastle, even though neither situation was really the judge's fault. It's not like Milt had sentenced him to solitary. He got himself into that one all on his own.

Mark put the finishing touches on a dinner of breaded pork chops, mashed potatoes and green beans and brought the food into the dining area. Hardcastle was already seated at the table, intently reading a file.

"Here's one...I think this guy is going to be our next case," Milt began, setting the file off to the side as Mark put a plate of food in front of him. "Thank you, it smells great, kid...looks great too!"

McCormick nodded and took a seat across the table. As he began to eat his own food, his mind traveled back again.

_He heard the food door open up and suddenly a metal tray came zipping across the cement floor. The room was still bright; he began thinking the light was going to stay on all the time. The noise level was unbearable too, worse than general pop--where guys would actually calm down after awhile. Here in the hole he could hear other inmates banging and pounding and screaming, while every radio call the guards received was broadcast loudly into all the cells. The noise was incessant. McCormick sat on the bunk and reached down to pick up the tray of food. He tried to make out what it was, exactly. Whatever it was, it was nearly cold already, something that resembled some meat with gravy and a piece of bread. They hadn't bothered to give him any sort of utensil, so he grabbed at it with his hand and took an unpleasant bite. They might have thought it was meat, but it was mostly gristle and fat. Spitting it back out onto the tray, he picked up the bread and ate that instead. The food door opened again, and a hand set a cup of coffee near the opening. McCormick stood up, shackles and all, and reached down for the mug. That was cold, too. He let out a deep breath and wondered if he could last in these conditions for sixty days._

"Did you ever hear of this guy inside?" Hardcastle was asking. He glanced up from the file he'd been studying to see McCormick lost again in thought. "What is with you today? Do you have something on your mind? You're like a million miles away."

"_What_?" McCormick said, coming back to reality.

"You have a whole plate full of good, hot food in front of you, and all you've eaten is the bread. Where you at today?" Hardcastle asked.

Mark quickly took a mouthful of pork chop into his mouth. "There, does that make you happy?"

"If bread is what you want, go ahead...sorry I asked. I guess I'm just used to seeing you shovel it in with both hands, you know?"

Mark was annoyed. "When have you ever seen me use my hands to eat with, Judge? Give me some credit here; I have more manners than that. I'm not an animal."

"Don't get so defensive--it was just an expression," Hardcastle responded. "So, did you ever hear of this guy when you were inside?"

"What guy?"

"Jerome Henry Boller, aka the 'Bowling Ball'."

"Jerry?" Mark nodded the affirmative. "Sure, I know him, only when I was in Quentin we called him 'ten-pin' because he was running his operation from inside. I heard guys say that he was quite the leader, had a big outfit at his beck and call. He was one of those guys who actually did better on the inside. I don't think he was in for too long a stretch, though."

"You're right about that, he did two years of a fifteen year sentence. His lawyer got him out on a technicality. The old, 'eyewitness recanted' story," Hardcastle explained. "That's what the file says anyway. It smells a little fishy to me."

"I wish I had one of those in my back pocket," Mark said. "I was never that lucky. Why do you think he got out?"

"My first guess would be some sort of deal, like turning evidence on someone. I'll have to do some digging into that."

"What's ten-pin up to these days?"

"I'm glad you asked. It appears that he's ramping up the drug action in our fair city."

'Shame on him."

"Now you're cooking."

Later that night McCormick lay wide-awake in his bed. Drugs and prison were nothing new.

"_Think about it for the next sixty days." That's what Padilla had said to him. _

_McCormick didn't need to think for very long. He knew exactly why Sergeant Padilla had targeted him specifically and hauled him off to solitary. He saw too much, heard too much and opened up his mouth one too many times._

_Mark had been out in the yard playing baseball. In between innings, his eyes drifted over to the backstop and he saw another inmate talking through the cyclone fence to Padilla. He kept watching, and saw Padilla pass something to the inmate and then move away. McCormick quickly turned to his cellie, who was sitting next to him on the bench. "Paulie, did you see that?" Mark asked._

"_See what, Skid?"_

"_Padilla, over behind home plate, by the fence?"_

"_Yeah, he's over there, so what?" Paulie said._

"_You missed it? I think he just gave something to that guy, I think he's dealing in here." McCormick picked up his finger and began to point. Paulie quickly put his own hand on top of Mark's and pushed it down._

"_Don't ever point, Skid, okay?" Paulie said. "Listen to me, there's a lot of stuff you're going to see in here that you gotta just wipe it off your memory. Let it go, okay, Skid? Trust me on this, your life will be a whole lot smoother."_

"_Let it go? We're not supposed to have any sort of physical contact with guards," Mark protested, "...especially not passing drugs. If Padilla is dealing, he should be tossed out of here."_

"_Skid, forget it, okay?" Paulie repeated, and laughed. "It's prison, Mark...there's all kinds of drugs in here. It ain't Boy Scout camp. Some of the guards are the biggest offenders. Just pretend like you don't see it. No one's forcing it on you, right?"_

"_Who is that guy?" Mark nodded toward the inmate who had gotten something from Padilla._

"_I think his name is Johnny Wilson. The guy's a serious druggie. Stay away from him. I think he's working for someone else in here, he's just a runner, he takes the heat for someone else," Paulie explained. "But it ain't important, Skid-- forget about what you see and just concentrate on playing baseball. You got a short sentence--don't blow it by sticking your nose in somewhere it doesn't belong. Just do your time and get out and never come back. Come on now, we got outs," The two of them trotted out onto the field._

_Mark had smashed a double to the center field cyclone fence wall, driving in a couple of runs to give his team a victory in the bottom of the 9th inning. As he walked off the field, Tom Lamparski came up to him to comment on the game-winning hit._

"_Nice rip Skid, maybe LaSorda should come and scout out here," he declared. "Heck, you got a short stint in here...you could make a career out of playing ball once you get out."_

_Mark grinned and let out a laugh. "It was just lucky. Hollins lofted one right down the middle of the plate. My grandma could have hit that marshmallow."_

"_We should see if we can get a game between you guys and some of us officers sometime," the guard commented._

"_I won't hold my breath waiting on that one," McCormick said with a friendly smile._

"_Well, it's possible, maybe I can drum up some interest, do a charity thing or something, you know...donate the winnings to some sort of cause on the outside..." _

"_You're a regular saint, Lamparski," Skid teased._

"_I think you guys would go for it too," Tom said._

_McCormick let out a chuckle, "Maybe some of us could create an all-star inmate team," he teased, "heck, maybe even sell tickets. There's nothing like box seats at a baseball game, right?"_

"_I heard Padilla can throw a 90mph fastball," Tom said._

_Mark shook his head, "Padilla probably can." His comment suddenly had a nasty edge to it._

"_What's that mean?" Tom noticed the irritation in Mark's voice._

"_Ah nothing," Mark said, remembering the advice of Paulie. "Listen, I gotta grab a shower before lockdown. See you later."_

_In the days that followed, McCormick couldn't help but notice Padilla and his little package exchanges. He also noticed that other inmates saw it as well as other guards, and as the days went on it got to him more and more. Everyone else seemed to ignore it. He wondered just how many people in this prison were involved in this. Worse than that, Padilla began to notice McCormick watching him and asking questions._

_McCormick tried to talk to Lamparski about it as well. It was after dinner chow and Mark was heading back to his cell from the common area and spotted Tom just ahead of him. He picked up his pace and was soon right behind him. "Officer Lamparski?" he said._

"_Mr. McCormick, you finished eating that fine dinner of spaghetti and meatballs already?"_

"_Is that what that was? Hmm, thanks for enlightening me," Skid joked. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"_

"_You can ask. I might not be able to answer though," Lamparski walked that fine line gracefully._

_McCormick smiled and nodded his understanding. "Is there ever a chance that someone in here would believe a con?"_

_Tom had to laugh at that question. "Probably not, but why?"_

_That wasn't the answer that Mark needed to hear. "Nothing, never mind," Skid brushed past him and headed into his cell. Lamparski stood at the end of the hallway and watched Mark as he disappointedly went into his cell. He couldn't help but wonder who or what McCormick was asking about. He stored the incident away in the back of his mind._

_Vic Padilla got wind of McCormick sticking his nose into his business and, needless to say, he didn't much care for it. Prison was a place full of snitches on both sides of the equation. Until McCormick stepped over the line, there wasn't much he could do, but in the meantime he could ramp up Mark's prison experience. He enlisted several of McCormick's Unit CO's to help him out. Padilla's first response to McCormick's inquisitive nature was to assign McCormick to extra work details-- the crummiest, most humiliating jobs in the prison... and the long hours made him miss out on meal times. When that didn't deter Mark, Padilla began restricting visitor access for him and also revoked McCormick's extra-curricular activities like school classes and baseball. He'd come up with reasons like Mark's cell area was in disarray or that his work was substandard. Nothing that could really be substantiated, but again, in prison, the CO's held all the power and Mark had to deal with the consequences of his privileges being denied. Still Mark watched him and kept making comments and asking questions of his fellow inmates. Only this time, Lamparski noticed things too, like what was happening to inmate number 458932. McCormick maintained his good-natured, smart mouth, but something was clearly different about him since Padilla had started in on him. Aside from Paulie and a few other inmates, Mark kept to himself --but he continued to study the inner workings of the prison and a way he could bust Padilla for dealing drugs._

_During free time out in the yard, Lamparski noticed that McCormick didn't play baseball anymore, even when he was allowed free time by Padilla. He walked over to where Mark was standing and said, "Whatever happened to that All-Star game we were going to assemble?"_

_Mark's gaze was focused on Padilla two fields away. He tore himself away long enough to look at Lamparski. "I got more important things to think about right now," he said coolly._

"_Yeah, like what?"_

"_Like watching guys who are supposed to be all law and order do just the opposite," he said snidely._

"_You want to come again?" Tom said._

"_You know what I'm saying," Mark said, turning to walk away from Lamparski._

"_Mr. McCormick," Tom began, "hold up there a minute." Mark stopped walking but didn't turn around. "If you know something, you're obligated to tell an officer."_

"_If I find one I can trust, who might believe an inmate's story, I would." He turned slowly and glared at Lamparski in the face and then walked past him._

_Tom Lamparski looked around the yard and tried to notice what or who McCormick had been watching. From a distance he saw Padilla. He was handing something to an inmate. Lamparski kept watching and began to formulate a plan._

_A few days later, on one very fateful day, after McCormick had been tormented with heavy work in 110+ degree heat and denied lunch, supper and even a drink of water, he was incensed enough to shoot his mouth off in front of Padilla, who was in charge of the work crew that day. The heated words between them escalated until Mark sarcastically accused the CO of being a drug dealer by calling him Santa Claus in the presence of other guards and a couple of other inmates. Padilla took a step closer and asked Mark to repeat what he said. McCormick wasn't backing off---he was weary, hungry and needed a simple drink of water, and he was tired of all the garbage Padilla had been dishing him. He took a step towards the CO, something the other guards noticed right away and they moved towards him. It wasn't soon enough, and McCormick laid a shove into Padilla who had gotten in his face as well. The other guards grabbed McCormick quickly and stepped him back. Mark knew instantly that he was in for it. He knew from day one that any physical contact with anyone would put him in the hole immediately. Bumping a CO was one of the worst things he could have done. Padilla let it go for the moment, but once lockdown came for the evening, Padilla came and yanked McCormick out of his regular population cell._

"_Hey, what's going on?" Paulie shouted, as Padilla pulled McCormick from the top bunk onto the floor. Neither one of the cellies knew what was happening, but Paulie had heard what had happened out in the foundry where McCormick had been working and knew that Padilla would try to retaliate._

"_You just shut up," Padilla said to Paulie and held out his hand to keep him at bay, while two more guards entered and hauled McCormick to his feet. Paulie reluctantly backed off._

"_You can't just take him out of here without just cause," Paulie shouted._

"_He tried to assault me today--I got witnesses," Padilla answered, loud enough so that other cells would hear the accusation._

"_You provoked him, Padilla...who are you trying to kid?" Paulie shouted back._

"_Mr. Abrogozzio, you weren't there...how would you know?" The CO slammed the door to their cell shut._

"_It's all right, Paulie, I'll be okay," Mark said._

"_Skid, just keep your mouth shut and do what they tell you to do, you hear me?" Paulie called out to him. Paulie shook his head in despair-- McCormick had no idea what Padilla had in store for him. The kid was going to get a lesson he didn't deserve._

_Just outside of the cell, Padilla ordered McCormick to be placed in leg shackles and handcuffs, and then he led him to the solitary segregation unit._

"_What'd I do, Padilla?" McCormick asked sarcastically, unaware of what lay ahead of him. "Do I need a lawyer?" _

_Padilla ignored the questions and continued to walk. As Mark went past the other cells, some of the inmates questioned why he was being taken away. McCormick merely shrugged and the inmates turned their attention to taunting Padilla instead, calling him 'Santa Claus' as Mark had done earlier in the day. They'd all heard the story by this time. This just incited Padilla all the more._

_Before he was placed into his new cell, McCormick was taken to a holding area where his regular issued clothing was removed, his watch and necklace were taken away and he was thoroughly searched. Padilla then pushed him into a shower unit where a blast of cold water ran down on him, followed by a gas dousing. McCormick coughed and squeezed his eyes shut...even so, they burned and teared up. Padilla came into the shower unit and, grabbing him forcibly, led him to a changing area where he was given a new set of clothes meant to identify him as a Seg prisoner and was ordered to put them on. Padilla then clamped the leg and hand irons on once again._

"_Is this really necessary? I'm not going anywhere. I won't fight." Mark said, holding up his handcuffed hands. Padilla still did not speak. "All I did was call you 'Santa Claus', it's a compliment , you know? You bring people such nice gifts," he added with a sarcastic grin._

_It wasn't till McCormick was tossed into Solitary 103 that he found out just how mad Padilla really was. Sixty days in the hole. Maybe next time he'd keep his mouth shut._

McCormick rolled over in his own bed at Gull's Way. He wanted to forget about that nightmare...and up to now, he thought he had. He needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow Hardcastle wanted to get started on taking down Jerome Boller, and he had to be ready.

The next morning Hardcastle was surprised to find McCormick up and all set to work. He also noticed that the kid looked like he hadn't slept too well. "You all right this morning?"

Mark nodded, "Yeah I'm fine. You wanted me up and ready by seven, right? Here I am."

Hardcastle dropped the personal chitchat. Obviously the kid didn't want to talk about whatever it was that had kept him up. "It's going to take us a couple of hours to get there," Milt began. "I think we'll take the truck."

"Where do we have to drive to, and what exactly is the plan?" McCormick asked.

"We're going to Boller's house." Hardcastle explained.

"We're going to his _house_? And _then_ what? We're just going to ask him if he's selling drugs?" Mark laughed. Leave it to Hardcastle to think of a plan so simplistic as that.

"Something like that."

"Nothing like the direct approach, huh, Hardcase?"

"Listen, kiddo, sometimes all you need to do is shake the tree to get the big, juicy apple to fall," Milt explained.

"And sometimes, if you're not looking when you're shaking, the apple falls on top of your head and hurts you," McCormick added as they pulled away and headed west.

Hardcastle didn't like the way the kid looked like he was exhausted. "If you want to take a nap, you can go ahead," he offered. "I know you don't like early mornings."

"I'm fine, Judge. I just didn't sleep too well last night. It happens, you know. Tonight I promise I'll have some warm milk and I'll drop right off."

"Why does everything I say have to get your smart mouth as an answer?"

Mark looked over at him, disappointed inwardly for what he was doing to Hardcastle. "I'm sorry, Judge," he said sincerely.

"That's okay," Hardcastle mumbled. "I need you to be sharp for this, you know?"

"I will be," McCormick turned and stared out the window. As the miles went by, he closed his eyes, but he wasn't sleeping...he was thinking about his experience in the hole.

_After the shower and the gassing, McCormick wasn't even given a towel to dry off, before the clothes got tossed at him. His hands trembled as he quickly tried to get dressed, the cotton prison issue garb clung to him where his skin was still wet. He knew Padilla had all the power in this situation and it scared him to death. Who knew what a power-hungry, sadistic, drug-peddling CO could be capable of doing? He'd heard the horror stories of solitary, and he'd even seen first hand what it did to some guys in the few short months he'd been inside. They came out different. He just kept telling himself to remain calm and not provoke Padilla any more. Much as he wanted to try to con the guard, he kept hearing Paulie's mouth telling him to be quiet and do what he was told._

_Now inside cell 103, with a cold dinner, wet clothes, and wearing shackles, McCormick put his head in his hands. He wanted to cry, but he was angry with himself for not listening to Paulie in the first place. He should have just ignored all the things he'd been seeing. This wasn't the streets of LA or the race track-- this was prison. Things worked differently in here. The words echoed in his head. 'Sixty days in the hole'. He looked around the cell. This was like hell itself. The stark white walls and the florescent light that probably was never going to go off could easily make him crazy. Being all alone was maddening. And who knew what else the crazy Padilla had in mind?_

_Just then the door automatically opened up and Padilla stepped inside. _

"_On your feet, Mr. McCormick," he said._

_McCormick stood up in a hurry and kept his mouth shut this time. There was no way of telling what Padilla would do, and there was no need for Mark to antagonize him._

"_Step over here, and face the wall," Padilla said, pointing to a spot on the opposite side of the bunk. As Mark stepped over he noticed eyebolts in the floor and the wall and he knew what was about to happen. Oh shit, he thought to himself, this madman is going to chain me to the floor and make me stand in one position. He'd heard other inmates talk about it. Another CO stood in the doorway of the cell. "If you attempt any funny business while I'm securing you, Mr. McCormick, there will be additional consequences. Now stand here and do not move."_

_Mark swallowed hard and moved to the spot on the floor that Padilla indicated. Padilla knelt down and secured McCormick's leg shackles and then stood up and locked the arm shackles to the wall. The guard pulled on the irons to make sure they were secure. McCormick had to say something. "Listen, Padilla, I'll do the sixty days, but I ain't no threat here. You don't need to do this. I'm not gonna say nothing to no one, all right? Is that what you want to hear?"_

_Padilla laughed. "I'm glad to see you think you've learned your lesson so soon, Mr. McCormick, but it's just not good enough and it's not sincere enough and, quite honestly, I don't trust you. You're a criminal, you've been convicted and sentenced. And you came after me, remember? That's a punishable offense here at San Quentin, and I can lay down the sentence. Sixty days in the hole is what I selected. We need to correct your incorrigible behavior. I need to teach you a lesson you'll never forget." He stepped right into McCormick's face to make his point. "And if you don't shut up, I'll add a collar too."_

_McCormick's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips together to keep from saying anything else._

"_Have a good night, Mr. McCormick," Padilla said, flashing that arrogant smile. He walked out of the cell and waited for the door to be slammed shut. Mark swore he could hear Padilla and the other guard laughing. Before the door completely closed he heard the other guard say to Padilla, "You sure know how to get these boys to listen up. What'd this one do to you, anyway?"_

"_He tried to take away my money train," Padilla said. "Thought he could get me tossed out of here. I'm a CO for crissake, and this chump thinks he can take me down? Then he came after me physically. I can't let that go." Padilla glanced back inside at Mark and gave him that sneering smile. "Close it up," he shouted down the hall._

_Mark took a few deep breaths. What little composure he still did have was going to have to last a long time. Padilla was out to kill him or make him crazy. He thought about his latest situation. Handcuffed to the wall and the floor, he was mostly stationary…only able to move a few inches one way or another. He'd already lost concept of time, with no outside window to speak of and a florescent light on all the time, and all he'd eaten was a piece of bread and a cold cup of coffee. Way to go, Skid, he said to himself. You really did a good thing this time._

McCormick felt a tap on his shoulder. "We're almost there--you should wake up, kiddo," the judge said. Mark's eyes flew open and he sat up quickly and nodded at Hardcase.

"I'm awake," he said.

"Hmph, seemed like you were sleeping," Hardcastle said. "Sure there's not something on your mind that you want to talk about?"

"Nothing that you'd understand, Judge. Let's just get this thing with Boller over with."

Jerome Boller was living out near Palm Springs in all the luxury that he could possibly afford. It didn't mean a thing to Hardcastle as he drove up to the gate and announced himself to the security man. The gate opened and Milt headed up the fancy driveway.

"_I'll_ do all the talking inside...just follow my lead," Hardcastle said.

"Like there'd be any other way, Kemosabe."

They were ushered into a fancy sitting area and about ten minutes later the bald-headed Jerome, 'bowling ball/ten-pin' Boller came bouncing into the room.

"Why if it isn't Judge Hardcastle. It's been a few years now, hasn't it? I thought only doctors made house calls, not judges, Judge?" Boller began in a mocking tone. "What could you possibly want with me? I'm not in the California Penal System any longer. My lawyer took care of that several years ago. I'm a free man now, Judge. Time and parole served."

Hardcastle nodded, "Yes I am aware of that, Jerry. I just wanted to stop by here and let you know that I've heard that you're back in business in Los Angeles...selling and buying illegal drugs. In fact, I heard you've got quite the little operation going. See, when you do that, you ruin other people's lives...and it's also against the law. I don't _like_ that kind of behavior, and I want you to know that I'm keeping my eye on you."

Boller nervously laughed. "I don't know where you've heard this from, Judge. I'm a businessman now. Stocks and bonds, strictly legit all the way. Should I have my lawyer call you and explain it?"

"That's not necessary, I wouldn't believe him either."

Boller glanced over at Mark and, realizing that he recognized him, tried to change the subject. "Who is this with you, Judge?"

Hardcastle glanced back at McCormick, "His name is Mark McCormick...he works with me." Mark nodded at Boller.

Boller laughed. "You did time at Quentin, didn't you?" Mark nodded ever so slightly. "I knew, never forget a face, you know? He doesn't look like much of a bodyguard--more like a _car thief_," the older man laughed, sneering.

McCormick was annoyed with Boller's attitude. "I'm also the judge's hairdresser...and the guy that will kick your ass if you get out of line with him." McCormick remembered that Boller had the same snooty attitude in prison as he did now--like he owned everything. He wanted the other cons to think he was the king pin of the whole yard. It was rumored that most of the big action went through him, but he wasn't inside long enough for anyone to make the accusation stick.

Hardcastle turned and glared at McCormick for making a stupid remark like that.

"My, my," Boller said. "Seems like you picked up a lot of bad habits in San Quentin--didn't you, Mr. McCormick? Or may I call you _Mark_? I remember you from inside. Your reputation of having a smart mouth was right on."

"'Mr. McCormick' is just fine, 'ten-pin'," Mark said, adding the other man's nickname to let him know he remembered him too. "And yeah, I did pick up some bad habits there, but I've dropped them now. Too bad you can't say the same thing."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Boller said, showing his growing irritation. "I've had just about enough of your poor comedy routine, Judge. And I'm not even sure of the joke, so I think I'll ask you gentlemen to leave, please."

Milt nodded, "Let's go, kid." When they got to the doorway, Milt turned back to Boller and said, "Just remember, Jerry--I'm watching you."

Boller smiled and gave him a nod. "Whatever makes you happy, Judge."

As they got into the pick-up, Hardcastle glowered over at McCormick and said, "Did you have to _do_ that? I asked you to be quiet and let me do all the talking, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember, but I don't like it when people push my buttons like that," Mark said, closing the passenger side door. "San Quentin changed me for the better, Judge. It only made guys like Boller worse. That guy is a crook--he was a crook in Quentin, and he'll always be a crook." He paused and added, "I'm sorry if I blew your plan."

Hardcase had to smile upon hearing that. "That's okay, I think it all worked, anyway. When he turned his attention to you, I knew he was already on the ropes. He's _scared_, and that's what we wanted. We should be able to wrap this one up pretty quickly and put that scumbag back in jail where he belongs. He'll do something stupid pretty soon."

"Yeah, let's hope so," Mark said. "The only downside is that Boller will just do the same thing from inside. He's never gonna change."

"One step at a time, kiddo, one step at a time."

Back inside the mansion, Boller immediately went into his study, picked up the phone, and made a call. "We might have a slight change in plans," he spoke into the receiver. "Well, I have this crazy judge sticking his nose in my business. He's already put me away once, and I can't take any chances. I need some information on him and on some ex-con named Mark McCormick. He was in Quentin around the same time I was. Yeah, that's it, get working on it now, okay?"

The ride back to Gull's Way was quiet for awhile, when McCormick finally broke the ice.

"Judge, did you know I was in solitary for awhile, back in San Quentin?"

Surprised by the way he started this conversation, the judge took in a deep breath and looked over at him briefly. Before returning his eyes to the road, he said, "Yeah, I read it in your file. Only ten days though. Who'd you shoot your mouth off at?" Hardcastle chuckled. He knew the kid's smart mouth could tick someone like a correction officer off in a matter of seconds, given the right set of circumstances.

"A CO who was dealing to both sides," McCormick said with grave seriousness.

Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. "You did _that_?"

McCormick nodded. "Pretty stupid, right? I sure learned fast though that nobody believes cons in the joint...and it was supposed to be sixty days."

"Sixty Days? Boy, oh boy, kiddo--when you open that mouth, you really know how to step _into_ it ,huh? So, what happened?

"He'd been riding me for weeks and I kept digging at him, I knew it was stupid. He started taking away my privileges and pushing my buttons at every turn, and one day he didn't like the fact that I called him out in front of a bunch of other cons and officers. He got in my face and I bumped him, and later that day he came and hauled me out of my cell. Next thing I knew, I was in the hole."

"How'd you knock down sixty days to ten? I mean once you're in there, they don't reduce your time." Hardcastle got no answer from McCormick, who was burning a hole in the windshield with an intense glare. He realized the kid wasn't going to say anything. Milt continued his questioning, "What happened to the CO?"

McCormick shook his head, "When I got out I never saw him again, or ever heard what happened to him-- and like I said, Judge, I learned my lesson fast. After that I was a 'yes sir/no sir' inmate that kept my mouth shut. I didn't ask any questions and I didn't volunteer any answers. I should have done that from the get-go, like people tried to tell me. I guess I'm a slow learner."

Hardcastle knew there was a lot more to this story than McCormick was telling, but he let it go for now, figuring the kid would tell him in due time. What he wanted to know was why all this was coming up _now_? Before he could ask, the kid told him.

Mark let out a laugh, "That old bomb shelter of yours made me think of it. I think the size of it and the damp musty smell in there just sort of triggered a memory of what the hole was like."

"Geez, I'm sorry about that, kid--I never thought..." Hardcastle said, but Mark cut him off.

"It's okay, Judge...it's not your fault. It's just a bomb shelter. If anyone should apologize, it should be me for just not coming out and telling you, instead of biting your head off the last few days. I'm sorry."

The judge waved him off. "You don't need to apologize. But I am sorry that you had to go through that in prison. Do you want to talk about it? I mean what happened in there?"

Mark cleared his throat, then turned and stared out the passenger window, "No, it's over. I don't ever want to talk about it again." His reply was terse, but held a lot of deeper secrets in its mood.

Hardcastle nodded his understanding, even though McCormick didn't see it and let the topic drop. It obviously was something the kid wanted to forget. He couldn't help but wonder though what had transpired.

The next day Mark was busy mowing the section of grass that was closest to the bomb shelter. Hardcastle had attempted to pile up some growth around it overnight so Mark wouldn't have to see it, but now that McCormick knew it was back there, it still gnawed at his mind.

_The monotony of being chained to the wall in the rather uncomfortable position and standing in one place led his mind to wander. Green grass, the crashing waves of the ocean, memories of his mother, racing cars, better times. He didn't really realize how much time had passed already...he had to concentrate on other things if he wanted to live through whatever Padilla had in store for him. The sadistic CO had kept him locked and shackled near the wall of his cell for four whole days and nights. Twice Mark had felt himself drift off to sleep, his legs buckling under him, but he had managed to catch himself before he awkwardly fell. The handcuffs were already biting into his wrists, leaving them cut, bruised and raw from not being able to hold them level. They'd drop down as much as the length of the chain would allow it, and Mark would let them hang that way till the pain became to much to bear. He'd tried to lean against the wall to get some sleep, but the length of the shackles prevented that as well. _

_He'd heard of this type of torture occurring in solitary, but he never thought it would happen to him over the comment he'd made. It wasn't like Padilla would get busted by an inmate accusing him of dealing drugs---who'd believe the con? But Vic Padilla was no ordinary CO. He obviously got his kicks from hurting people and breaking them down with the control he held over them. How could a CO get away with doing this to someone?...or was this a common practice? It seemed like the other CO's let Padilla do whatever he wanted. McCormick didn't get it. If it was something that happened all the time, the inmates kept it to themselves. And if Mark made it through the next sixty days, he vowed to try to forget about this too. This was not even human, to leave a man chained to the wall, withholding food and facilities... the more McCormick thought about it, the angrier he got. Sleep deprived, soiled and hungry, he was a mess, but there was no way he'd give Padilla any type of satisfaction. Even if it meant staying in this position for the entire sixty days he'd do it without making a sound. His mouth already had gotten him in this mess to begin with. They'd even been sliding in tray upon tray of cold food, but there was no way he could get to it. That was how he'd figured out it had been four days, by dividing the trays by three. Four agonizing days. Every muscle in his body ached, burned and screamed for relief from the misery. Finally, sometime on the fourth day, he gave out from the exhaustion, passing out from the pain and the starvation. That's exactly what Padilla was waiting for as he passed by the cell and peered inside to see Mark twisted awkwardly and limp, hanging from the arm shackles yet still anchored to the floor._

_Padilla called for cell 103 to be opened, and he entered and unlocked McCormick from the wall and floor eyebolts, but left on the restraints. Mark collapsed in a heap onto the cement. Padilla laughed and, leaving him there, kicked the food trays around on the floor of the cell, emptying the contents. He glanced around, smiled at his handiwork, and called for the door to close to lock the cell back up._

_Five hours later McCormick eyes fluttered open. For a second he wondered where he was, but then the memory of being in the hole came flooding back. He was still lying on his side on the floor of the cell. The cold ground felt good against his warm cheek. He reached up to touch it and could feel a goose egg forming. He must have fallen on his face. He held out his hands in front of him and watched as they nervously shook. You got to get a hold of yourself, Mark, he thought. Lifting his head, he glanced around the room and saw the cold, rotting food scattered on the floor. As much as he would have liked to eat, he didn't know if he even had the strength to reach the crumbs._

_He closed his eyes and drifted off and hoped that when he awoke he would find that it all had been a dream._

The judge stood at the end of the row McCormick was cutting, waving his arms. Mark shut off the mower and said, "What's up, Judge?"

"You know you've just gone over the same row 18 times? I was watching from inside...what the hell are you doing to my lawn?"

McCormick shook his head in despair--he felt terrible that the judge noticed that he was messing up. He knew he was daydreaming, but it wasn't something he wanted to admit to or talk about. He hung his head to avoid eye contact. "Sorry, Judge."

"You know all you're doing is wasting gas, gas which _I _pay for, and I don't appreciate it," the judge complained, his voice rising. He calmed himself down and asked, "When do you think you're going to finish out here?"

"About another hour I think. I want to do the section over by the statues too," Mark replied.

"An _hour_ ! I bet it would only take twenty minutes if you didn't feel the need to go over the same row 18 times!" Milt's voice rose to a deafening level. "I'm going over to Frank's office to talk about this Boller thing and find out if he's got any new leads for us. I'll see you when I get back."

"Okay, Judge." Mark exhaled as he watched Hardcastle walk away. He needed to get a grip on these flashbacks he was having. They hadn't come on like this before; in fact he'd managed to push the bad memories of prison so deep that he hoped they were gone forever, but stepping into that damn bomb shelter had brought them all back. If he kept this up, Hardcastle would probably send him to an asylum or, worse, to a shrink who'd dredge it all up in some impersonal office. No, he needed to rid himself of the memories-- and soon. He turned his attention back to the mower, but as he pulled the start line, the corner of his eye caught a view of the bomb shelter. _Damn_.

_The steel door was still closed when he came to again. This time McCormick felt a little stronger and managed to crawl his way over to a food tray that hadn't yet been kicked over. It had to be the most recent. He reached for the slice of bread and shoved it in his mouth, barely taking the time to chew it. A cold, hamburger patty was next and he used his fingers to scrap up what appeared to be creamed corn. That was his dinner. He didn't bother to taste it. After four days, getting anything into his stomach would be good, no matter how vile it really was. After he ate, he realized what an animal he'd become in just a short period of time…eating with his hands, barely even chewing, grabbing food off the dirty floor. He closed his eyes and shuddered from the disgusting image he must be. He scooted himself over to the bunk and leaned back against it, and then looked down at himself and the mess that he was. Filthy, dirty and soiled from head to toe, the putrid odor came not only from the disgusting cell but also from himself. He crawled over to the sink and, hoisting himself up, turned on a tiny trickle of water. Each movement he took reminded him of the past four days. Using his hands, he tried to clean himself up as best he could, but soon his legs gave out underneath him and he crumpled back onto the cold floor. The bunk looked like it was a million miles away, when it was really just a few inches. He knew he'd never make it onto the bed, but he crept over to its side and, reaching back with his chained hands, grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around himself. Exhausted, he fell back to sleep again._

_He wasn't sure how long he was out for this time. He heard the steel door open and saw Padilla's steel-toe boot just before it jabbed him in his side. "Get up, Mr. McCormick. On your feet, you piece of shit." He added another kick for good measure and Mark let out a painful moan. "Did that hurt? Too bad---get your ass up!" the guard screamed._

_Another CO reached down and yanked off the bed cover. "Looks like Linus, doesn't he?...all wrapped up in his security blanket." Padilla laughed at the other guard's feeble joke._

_McCormick glanced at the other guard and thought to himself that Padilla must be training some protégés. The size of this guy was imposing. He had to be at least 6'6" and outweighed Mark by 100 pounds._

"_I said... get up!" Padilla shouted again at him._

_McCormick squinted as he tried to wake himself up and wondered just how he was going to manage to stand up on his own. His legs were still mush after the forced chaining. He leaned on the nearby bunk and tried feebly to rise. All of a sudden he felt the other guard grab him under his arms and hoist him to a standing position._

"_That bunk is for sleeping on, you idiot, not the floor...or do you need a crib?" Padilla was trying his darnedest to provoke him. McCormick was still too incoherent to respond anyway. "Look at this cell! Food all over, feces and urine on the floor, and you're disgusting too, McCormick. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to clean yourself?"_

_Mark bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying anything and closed his eyes momentarily at the thought of his mother's name coming out of the mouth of a sick, sadistic hunk of garbage like Padilla. He was coherent enough to know what Padilla was trying to do to him, but he held back his comments._

_Padilla walked right up to Mark's face. "I'll tell you what, Mr. McCormick, we'll give you a hand this time. I'll have one of the guards clean up this food and we'll take you down and delouse you again, but that's it, you understand? And I'm adding these last four days back onto your solitary sentence time. I hope you learned that you need to take better care of this cell. It's my property, you know, and any time you make a mess in here, I'm gonna take it real personal... and I'm gonna keep adding a day to your sentence here. You think you understand that, Mr. McCormick?"_

_At this rate, McCormick thought he'd never get out of solitary. Mark evened out his breathing and didn't respond. He hated that Padilla was right on top of him and he was powerless._

"_I'm not hearing your answer, and I better hear it, or that means another day here. Now...do you understand?"_

"_Yes," Mark said with some reluctance, trying not to look at the face that was right up in his own._

_Padilla heard the reluctance right away and continued to press the issue. "Yes, what?"_

"_Yes, Sergeant Padilla, I understand." Mark managed to string a few words together._

_Padilla smiled cockily and held it for a moment, the two of them glaring at each other. Finally he took a step back and said to the other guard. "Take him down and hose him off, clothes and all. And remember, no external marks on him. We'll break him down the right way...no one will ever know."_

"I tell you Frank, I don't know what happened to him in there, but it's all he's thinking about. I've never seen him like this before. It's like he's a million miles away from where he's supposed to be. He's starting to worry me," Hardcastle said as he paced Frank Harper's office. "And who would have thought that a stupid bomb shelter would bring it all back to his mind? I've heard stories of what happens to guys in the hole, you know?"

"Maybe you've been watching too many movies, Milt?" Frank suggested.

"Oh come on, we _both _know there's bad officers inside. You haven't seen his face. It's really bothering him."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Of course I asked him about it. He told me how his smart mouth landed him in there--he accused a CO of dealing drugs and they had a little bumping match. I always knew that his mouth was the thing that gets him into trouble, but even I thought he'd _know_ better than to take on a CO in prison. The last thing in the world you want to do is tick off one of those goons, they have all the power inside. They gave him sixty days, but he was only in there for ten. I figured something had to have happened in those ten days and I asked him about what went on inside, but he just shut down." The judge sighed. "I'm sorry I started going after Boller, the kid's head is just not with me. It could be dangerous to have him working the case."

"Maybe he needs to talk to a doctor or something?" Frank suggested.

Milt rolled his eyes, "You _think_? You know you're a genius, Frank," he deadpanned. "Maybe we can get Boller quickly, and then I can see what I can do for him."

"Well, you just said his head's not right--you think it's safe to try to take on the largest drug dealer in the city if he's not standing with you?"

"Oh he's standing with me. I just need to keep him focused. And that's why _you_ back us up, right?" Hardcastle said sarcastically. "What's the latest you have on our ten-pin?"

"You guys must have rattled him--he checked into the Hilton downtown yesterday. The drug unit is keeping him under surveillance, but he hasn't gotten into any trouble we've seen just yet."

Over at the Hilton, Boller's assistant handed several files to him, and the drug dealer began to read them. Boller suddenly commented, "Oh, _this _is interesting. It seems as though our Judge Hardcastle has taken Mr. McCormick under his wing, so to speak, a protégé type of thing. And even though the judge is retired, he and his trusty companion spend their days bringing criminals to justice!" Boller laughed. "Hardcastle, Hardcastle, Hardcastle--you should enjoy your retirement like all men your age do. Play golf, fish, check into an old folks home...but, no, you've decided to pass along your terrier mentality to a new generation. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Let's see what we know about Mr. McCormick." Boller pushed aside the file on Hardcastle and began to peruse Mark's file.

"Ha, I _knew_ I remembered this guy--Mark McCormick. Yeah, he had a big mouth--it got him into a bit of trouble. Especially when he stuck his nose in _my_ business. It's all starting to come back to me now." Boller picked up his phone and made a call. "Mr. Williams, it's Mr. Boller. I need you to find me someone. Someone from my past. Yes, from my days inside San Quentin. You remember my friend on the inside. Yes, that's the one, we all profited well for over a year. Yes, you _do_ understand, don't you? Good. You're right, it took me another four months to convince another CO out there that he could make some serious money just by looking the other way. Do we know where he is now? _Thinking_ you do is not good enough, Mr. Williams. I pay you for results. Find him and have him meet me in LA. I don't care how much it might cost... just do it."

A few hours later, one of Boller's assistants led the object of his search to the hotel room.

"_There_ you are! You weren't too hard to find, were you? What have you been up to these past few years, Victor?" Boller asked.

Vic Padilla copped an attitude immediately. "I spent a year in Western, thanks to you and your drugs, Boller --and I don't appreciate being hauled out of bed and dragged to meet you downtown. Whatta you want? You do remember I didn't want anything to do with you ever again. This better be important."

"I have a new deal for you," Boller began. "You remember how profitable we used to be when we worked together?"

Padilla let go one of his patented sneaky smiles. "Yeah, so _what_? I really don't want to go back inside. You know how you're treated if the cons inside find out you're a former CO? Can you guarantee that's not going to happen?"

"I think you're putting the cart before the horse, Mr. Padilla. I just said it's a 'deal'...who said there's anything criminal involved?"

"When it comes to you, 'bowling ball', it's _always_ criminal. Now, whatta ya want?" Padilla repeated.

Boller took a deep breath and thought carefully on how to proceed. "I believe you remember the exact reason, or should I say the exact person, who busted our little deal the last time, don't you?"

"Yeah, a con by the name of Mark McCormick...why?" Padilla said.

"How'd you like to finish the job you started with him?" Boller asked.

Padilla was obviously interested. Boller noticed him stand up just a little straighter. "Is he out now?"

"Yes, he is, and he's living the high life from what I hear from my sources," Boller said.

Padilla made himself to home and sat down across the desk from Boller. "You want me to set him up and get him sent back inside?"

"No, I'd like you to _permanently_ take care of him...like you wanted to three years ago."

"I'd like to do that too--there's only so much you can do inside, you can't leave any outward marks on a person, you know? I could have hurt that one real bad, but I couldn't do too much in ten days." Padilla laughed. "Anyway, I don't really have the same equipment at my disposal these days."

"As I recall, you certainly did plenty of damage in ten short days. I believe McCormick was in the infirmary for another ten days after that," Boller remembered. "And you worry too much, Mr. Padilla. I own an old warehouse down near the harbor. It's abandoned right now. I think it would work perfectly for, well, the things you like to do."

"What exactly did McCormick do to tick you off this time? He's not a drug runner." Padilla was curious. He knew that Boller and McCormick ran in completely different circles of illegality. "I'm not even sure how he got word to the warden about what was happening in Seg. The best I could figure was that his cellie had some sort of special connection. I never did find out. I got fired that afternoon, and when I left the feds were outside the gate waiting for me. Was McCormick some sort of _plant _back then?"

"Not from what I've been able to determine. He was in legit for grand theft auto. But he's fighting crime now --or trying to--it must be a life long ambition of his," Boller said snidely. "He and his _mentor_," and he seethed when he said the word, "are beginning to stick their nose in my business. And I'm like you, Padilla--I don't want to go back inside, either. I want to snuff out this little duo before they get in any deeper. I have a big deal coming up and I can't have them in the way, do you understand?"

Padilla nodded. "What kind of money are we talking about, Boller? I've got expenses now, and I haven't been able to get a steady job since I got out."

"I'm prepared to offer you a cool million to get these two out of my life--and soon," Boller said.

"Where do I find them?" Padilla asked.

Boller smiled and wrote down the address, took out a handful of cash from a desk drawer and slid it across the desk to him. "Come back and see me for the rest when you've completed the task."

Milt, Mark and Harper decided to have lunch at the Hilton that afternoon. The plan was just to stay in Boller's scope of vision. They had no intention of even talking to him; however, Boller had other plans. He came up to their table once he spotted the three of them and decided to engage them in some unsavory banter.

"Certainly there must be some joke about the cop, the judge and the ex-con, because the three of you are certainly very funny," he began.

"Enjoying your lunch, Boller?" the judge asked calmly.

"More than you'll ever know," Boller smiled, curling up his lips. "Honestly, do you think by following me you'll see me do something I shouldn't do, like jaywalk across the dining room?"

"We're just here having lunch, Boller...who said we're following you?" Harper chimed in.

"That's very amusing, Lieutenant. I know you've had the Metro Drug Unit hounding me for the last year--it's not hard to figure out who you're watching. Unless it's the two little old ladies over in the corner," he pointed. "They are certainly having a bad hair day. Can you arrest someone for that?"

"Only if they start passing packages of cocaine to the table next to them," Mark replied. Milt directed a minor glare in his direction to not start anything. Mark caught the look and said to Hardcastle, "No, seriously Judge...I'm not going to sit here and listen to him insult you and Frank. The guy has no respect for either one of you. He's playing us."

Boller let out a laugh. "My, my, this is a comedy routine. An ex-con defending the dignity of the robe and the badge. How _touching_." His tone was altogether condescending.

McCormick stood up quickly and swung his right hand into the jaw of Boller, who crumbled to the floor. Hardcastle grabbed a hold of McCormick, pulling him away. "Settle _down_, McCormick," the judge said into his ear. Several waiters gathered nearby, and the restaurant manager came over to see what the trouble was.

"We're just leaving," Frank said, as Milt was already pushing McCormick out of the restaurant.

Frank followed them at a distance, stopping to pay the bill and planning to give the two of them a couple of minutes alone. He was already dreading having to drive them back to Gull's Way, since he'd picked them up earlier. He could only begin to imagine what that ride was going to be like. He was sorry he agreed to this little lunch date.

Up ahead, Milt still had a hold of McCormick's jacket and pulled him to a stop. "Why are you having such a _problem_ doing what I ask you to do on this case? That was totally uncalled for. Do you think Frank or I have never been insulted before? It's just _words_, kiddo, you know--'sticks and stones'. It doesn't give you the authority to break his bones."

"Cute, Hardcase, you're telling nursery rhymes now," McCormick tried to joke. Breaking free from the judge's grasp, he took a few more steps.

Hardcastle stuck with him and stopped him again by grabbing his arm. "There's nothing funny about you busting Boller in the chops," he said. "Remember, you're still on probation."

"Like I said to him, I'm not going to sit there and let him insult you, I don't care about probation. The guy is nothing but a drug dealer who makes his fortune off hurting others. I'm _sick_ of it. It's just a game to him. He could care less about me or anyone else for that matter."

"You're _gonna _care when he presses charges and the next judge you get isn't as nice as the one you currently have and revokes your parole."

"He's not gonna press charges," McCormick said with an annoyed tone

"Oh, you're pretty _sure_ of that, are you? You could wind up back up North... is that what you want?"

Mark didn't answer right away, but he angrily pulled away from Milt's grasp. "No that's not what I want! You know I don't want to go back inside," he exclaimed...and for emphasis he added, "_Ever_."

Milt knew he was still upset over the bomb shelter and the memories it had dredged up. He also knew the kid did not want to discuss it, and certainly not in the middle of the Hilton Hotel's parking lot. "Look, I know you got other stuff on your mind, we'll go back to Gull's Way, and I'll go do some snooping around by myself. You can just take it easy, okay, get your head sorted out, sit the rest of this one on the sidelines."

Mark looked away from the judge. "I can't….look, I'm _sorry_, all right? You can't do this alone. Boller's not in this alone. He's got a whole stable of people. If you get too close, he could hurt you."

"I'll take Frank with me, then," Hardcastle said, as Frank came walking up to them. "Let's go home."

The ride back to Malibu was excruciatingly quiet. Mark went to the gatehouse as soon as he stepped out of the car. "What was all _that_ about?" Frank asked Milt as they walked to the patio near the pool. "I've never seen McCormick provoke someone like that before." The cop smiled, "He really popped Boller good, though. I didn't know Mark had it in him."

Hardcastle was not pleased. "I told you the other day, he's been acting like this since I brought up that damn bomb shelter!" The judge tossed his head in the direction of the offending structure.

Frank sensed Milt's serious tone, so he wiped the smile off his face. "Did you talk to him about seeing a doctor? Maybe he wants you to suggest it. You know admitting you need professional help is half way to getting there sometimes. There's still that stigma over seeing a shrink, but if you suggest it, maybe he'd go for it."

"No, I haven't done that yet. I _can't_ do that... he doesn't want that... this is _McCormick_ we're talking about, you know?" Milt said, still gazing toward the shelter. "I think I'll call a contractor tomorrow and have them demolish the whole thing. I really don't need it anymore, and it's just making him crazy."

"Milt, this thing is deeper than a building. He just slugged a guy in a restaurant without any real cause. You should find out what happened to him during those ten days. Maybe the sooner he talks it out, the sooner he'll get over it."

"Frank, he doesn't want to talk about it. I can't _force_ him."

"You either need to do something to help him get past it, or you need to keep him away from Boller. Until we have some new evidence against the guy, McCormick just can't go in there half-cocked like that. Boller will press charges. I've seen him do it to others over a lot less."

"I'll talk to him, Frank," Hardcastle said. "Can you make sure Boller doesn't press charges?"

"I'll try. I better get back to work. And you guys owe me $40 for lunch," Frank added.

Hardcastle sauntered over to the gatehouse about an hour later. He knocked on the door and waited till he heard McCormick tell him to come in. The young man was sitting on the sofa watching TV.

"Whatta ya watching?" Hardcastle asked.

"It's not a John Wayne movie," McCormick answered shortly, then added, "...it's just a soap opera. General Hospital. And before you ask, no, I _still _don't want to talk about it."

Milt sat down in one of the chairs. "Did I even ask?"

"No, but I can tell you want to...you think that I hit him over something that happened inside. And that isn't true. I only knew Boller by reputation. He was in a different housing unit. Quentin's a big place." He sighed and looked at the judge. "I can't believe it took you an hour to walk over here and talk to me. It must be driving you crazy...and I already told you it's over."

"And I can't help but think that you're letting it interfere with your normal judgment," Hardcase said. "You need to slow down a little here, sport--you're wound up tighter than a spool."

Mark raised his eyebrows at the compliment, "You're saying I have 'normal judgment'?"

Milt cleared his throat suspiciously, knowing that he'd walked into that one. "Like I said the other day, it might help if you let it out, whatever it is that's on your mind. I'm supposed to be the guy you _talk_ to, right?"

Mark got up from the sofa and started heading for the kitchen, "I already said no, thanks. It's something I want to forget. Can we just _drop_ it? Do you want a beer?"

"No, I _don't _want a beer, I want to know what's going on in that head of yours! I know there's something underneath all that hair," the judge said, raising his voice. "You might want to forget it, but you're not doing a very good job of it."

Mark got himself a can and came back and flopped onto the couch. He knew Hardcastle was going to continue to press him. "Look, Judge, I know you care and I know you want to know, but I'm not ready to talk about it. I don't know if I'll _ever_ want to talk about it. I just want to forget it. I really appreciate your concern though. I'll get over this--I know I will. Just let it go."

Hardcastle got up from the chair. "I just need to know that you can keep it together for this case. I need to have you sharp."

McCormick took a swig from the beer, "I'll be all right. I promise."

_Three times he fell down on the cement floor as Padilla pushed him down the hall toward the shower. He crawled a little bit of the way, till he felt the CO's grubby hands under his shoulders, heaving him upward and re-aiming him toward the showers. _

_Once they entered the open area shower, Padilla turned on the cold water and told McCormick to step in. _

_Mark stopped dead in his tracks--he still had all his clothes on as well as the iron shackles._

"_Is there a problem with your ears? I said, step in there," Padilla repeated angrily._

_McCormick held out his wrists, as if to ask to be unlocked._

_The guard laughed. "Nothing's coming off...now get in there!" He grabbed Mark by the shoulder and pushed him into the shower._

_The water was ice cold and Mark shuddered as he stood under the spray. He hoped Padilla didn't expect him to stand under it for too long. But his wish wasn't granted. It was twenty minutes later when the cold water was finally shut off . McCormick stood there dripping wet from head to toe. He wanted to speak, and his lips parted to ask a question, but he stopped himself. That was a mistake. Padilla saw his hesitation right away and took it as another opening for added verbal abuse. "What, Mr. McCormick? Something on your mind?"_

_McCormick shook his head no._

"_What was that?" Padilla asked. "You better answer when I ask you a question. Now what's on your mind?"_

"_Nothing, Sergeant Padilla," Mark replied hoarsely._

"_Funny, I thought you had something to ask. Too bad though, cause if you'd asked for... say...a towel or a set of dry clothes, you might have gotten some. Now you'll just have to 'drip dry'."_

_Mark closed his eyes for an extra long bit of time, keeping his emotions restrained. He knew that whichever side of the coin he'd chosen, Padilla would do the opposite. It was a no-win situation._

"_Now get going back to your cell, it's nearly chow time."_

"You sure you don't want to play poker with us? It might take your mind off whatever it is that's bothering you." Hardcase started in on Mark during dinner.

McCormick dropped his fork with a loud clatter. He was trying to take his mind off what was bothering him, but being innocently reminded of it every hour wasn't helping either. He dropped a perturbed glare in Hardcastle's direction.

"I'm just saying, that's all." Hardcastle tossed up his hands in defense of his statement.

"To answer you again, no, I don't want to play poker with you tonight--and the only thing on my mind is trying to figure out what kind of meat this is on my plate." Mark retorted.

"You know you could do pretty well tonight. Judge Jacobson's the worst bluffer in the county. It's like taking candy from a baby when he plays...and it's U.S.D.A Grade A roast beef, wise guy."

McCormick took a bite of the roast beef. "Well, then... far be it from me to step in on your action. Heck, maybe if you win a lot, you'll consider giving me a raise," Mark jibed, still picking at the food. "Making more than minimum wage is a goal of mine."

The judge stood up from the table. "Listen, would you mind cleaning this up, then?" he asked, indicating the dirty dishes. "I'm supposed to be there by seven."

"Cleaning up after you is my job, Judge, so go already."

Mark finished eating while the judge put on a fresh sweatshirt and was in the kitchen when Hardcastle breezed through to say goodnight to him. "Tomorrow morning I want to check out a lead on Boller, maybe about nine o'clock? You want to give it another try?" the jurist asked.

McCormick looked up from the dish he was washing, "Sounds good, I'll be ready." The judge nodded and went out the back door toward the garage. Mark went back to the dishes, and as he went to rinse one of the plates, some of the soapy water splashed up and hit him in the face.

_He was shivering cold as he was pushed back to his solitary cell, dripping wet from head to toe, and suddenly his stomach was starting to act up on him. Padilla shoved him roughly once again but he managed to stay on his feet as the steel door of his cell closed behind him. He stood in the center of the cell for a moment and felt nauseous, and above him a blast of cold air was being pumped in, causing him to shiver. A look of disbelief crossed his face. Padilla was now literally trying to freeze him out. He didn't think too long about being sopping wet and cold because all of a sudden his stomach demanded his attention. He quickly managed to shuffle over to the toilet and allowed whatever was in his stomach to exit. Wave upon wave of vomit came up on him. And finally after the sickening feeling subsided, he dropped to a sitting position on the floor and could only wonder if Padilla had somehow poisoned the food he had managed to eat. He took some deep breaths and felt the mix of sweat and the cold shower he'd been given drip down his body, and then another wave of bile hit him. As he leaned over the toilet, he tried to flush the handle, but just a small trickle of water circled the bowl. Just great, he thought---the added aroma of vomit would fill the already horrific cell. _

_He estimated the time to be about a half hour later when he finally managed to get up from the floor. He thought that maybe if he'd just lie down on the bunk and sleep, some of this nightmare would pass. It'd be kind of hard to actually get any sort of quality sleep when the light in the room was always on, but he had to give it a try. As he sat down on the edge of the bunk, he realized that someone had doused his thin mattress with as much cold water as it could hold. Some of the water ran down on the floor as the stuffing compressed when he sat. He stood up quickly and thought about what he should do. If he took the mattress off and slept on the hard cement bunk, Padilla would probably walk by and give him an infraction. If he left the mattress in its place, there'd be no way he could sleep on basically a puddle of cold water. He reached out and touched the nearby blanket. It had been saturated as well. He lifted his shackled hands to his face and felt the bearded whisker growth. 'Nightmare' was too kind of a word for what he was going through. He didn't think he could last for six days, let alone sixty._

_McCormick decided to sit on the floor at the edge of the bed. He had pushed the mattress up far enough that any draining water would not seep out onto where he sat and he could lean his head back enough to fall asleep and have a place to rest it. Plus the cold draft of air didn't seem too bad from this spot either. Before long, he fell asleep._

_He didn't know how long he'd slept for when he was awakened suddenly by Padilla standing over him, holding his billy club and smacking it on his own fist for added effect. "Get up, Mr. McCormick, it's morning!" he said, grabbing Mark by the shirt collar and forcing him to his feet. "It's time for your little workout." He dragged him over to the eyebolts again and shackled him to the floor and wall. This time when he left, the lights in the cell went out. Padilla must have even covered the tiny window, because not a speck of illumination entered. Mark was in complete darkness. It seemed even colder in the cell than it had been, and now the blast of freezing air was aimed right at him. He shivered as he stood there. He tried to stay awake, but the darkness seemed to engulf him and he felt himself drifting off._

_Suddenly the lights were on again and Padilla and another CO were in the cell again. This time they unchained him from the wall and pushed him onto the soggy mattress. Forcing him to lie down on it, they attached the shackles so he couldn't move. The cold air from the ceiling vent still poured out on him._

_McCormick's fogging brain slowly began to deduce that Padilla was playing a game of lights on/lights off and rotating McCormick's position between being chained to the wall vs. lying on a wet mattress about every half hour, and it was successfully working to really mess with McCormick's mind. Was it day or was it night?... and just how many days had passed?...and just how many more days was he planning on doing this for? _

_McCormick started to cough and shake after what he thought was the twenty-fourth time of this. He'd thrown up a couple of more times when he'd been chained to the wall and figured his body was beginning to violently react to the cold, damp, surroundings._

_Would he die before sixty days of this passed?_

Mark shook off the flashback and found himself holding a wet plate. Grabbing a nearby towel, he wiped off the water dripping off his face.

Hardcastle hummed a little as he pulled away, his mind still on McCormick. He didn't pay attention to the dark colored, late model Chevy sedan that slowly pulled up to the drive and entered as he exited. He was already whizzing down the PCH, thinking of how much money he could take from the table.

"I thought you were gonna bring Mark along," Frank commented as they walked into Jacobsen's home.

"I was going to, but I couldn't very well handcuff him and drag him kicking and screaming, _could_ I? He said in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to come."

"That's too bad, he could have cleaned up tonight. Jake's the worst poker player in California."

"I tried to tell him that, but you saw it for yourself, he's just not focused these last few days. I gotta figure out a way to break through," Hardcastle said.

"Well, I think I got a lead," Frank began.

Hardcastle's eyes widened, "Really? What'd you find?"

"From what I can tell it looks like Boller had some help running his show on the inside, and you're right, it was a bad officer. We're tracking down his name right now. And it also turns out that someone on the inside got wind of it and broke it wide open."

"Let me guess, Boller turned evidence on the bad officer and walked?"

Frank nodded, "Can you believe they let a piece of scum like that back out on the streets for turning over a bad cop? They should have put them in a cell _together_."

"Well, all that's good to know, but we need something now that we can use to put our friend the bowling ball away for good this time."

Mark headed into the den and, flicking on the TV set, plopped down in a chair. He picked out a comedy, but even the laugh track of the show couldn't keep his mind from wandering back.

_He had no idea of how much time had passed since this latest torture scheme of Padilla's had begun. Tired, hungry, exhausted and sick, he felt like he was about one step from completely losing his mind. He was chained to the wet mattress when Padilla opened up his cell and came in and unlocked him. McCormick automatically started to head toward the wall, but Padilla grabbed hold of his collar and shoved him toward the door. "This way, Mr. McCormick."_

_Mark walked out into the long cement hall. It appeared that he was heading toward the shower area once again. And indeed he was. When they arrived in the outer area of the showers, Padilla took off his shackles for the moment, had him undress and then re-shackled his legs and hands and told him to step into the shower. Mark did as he was told. In the next shower over, another inmate was also taking a shower. McCormick squinted his eyes shut as the mist splashed in his face and he recognized the inmate to be Johnny Wilson---the guy he'd seen Padilla pass drugs to. Wilson saw Mark staring at him and took immediate offense to it._

"_Who the hell are you looking at?" he shouted._

_McCormick shook his head vaguely and turned away, waiting for his own shower to start._

"_I asked you a question," Wilson said._

"_I don't want any trouble, man, okay?" Mark said softly, as the cold water hit his chest._

"_You may not want it, but it's coming looking for you," Wilson said, charging into Mark and knocking him to the ground. McCormick was practically defenseless and Wilson had no cuffs or shackles on. He was on top of Mark pounding on him for all he was worth._

_Padilla and the two other guards stood on the edge watching the whole thing and doing nothing to break up the melee. This whole episode was just another part of Padilla's plan. Two con's going at each other was nothing new in prison and no one could prove it was anything else. _

_After about ten minutes the guards shut off the water and stepped in to pull the two inmates off of one another. Wilson got up first, laughing the whole time and screaming, "Next time McCormick, I'll finish what I started." The two guards hauled him off. "Don't forget me," he yelled as they took him away._

_Mark still sat on the floor, dazed, bruised and bloodied. His lip was cut and his nose was bleeding. Padilla came in and yelled at him to get up. Slowly he picked himself off the cold, wet floor. Back in the changing room, he was given dry clothes for a change and then was escorted back to Cell 103 again._

_He thought he was getting a partial reprieve from the type of treatment he'd been given, as he merely got a shove from Padilla as he stepped inside the cell and sat down on the edge of the bunk. It only took a couple of minutes to realize that the new set of clothes he'd been given was loaded with bugs. They started to bite at him and crawl all over his skin. He stood up quickly and started to shake and paw at the garments. As no relief came, he started anxiously ripping them off and screaming for help. Padilla stood outside in the hall and laughed._

_Meanwhile, the two other guards had taken Johnny Wilson back to general population. Officer Tom Lamparski had seen them take him away earlier in the day and wondered why he was back so soon...and just where had he gotten a swollen lip and bruised cheek from?_

_He didn't have the answers, but he was going to start looking for them._

Padilla watched the old judge drive away. Hardcastle and McCormick had been joined at the hip since the ex-CO got word from Boller, but he saw this as his golden opportunity. He knew McCormick lived in the small residence house on the estate. This wouldn't be easy...he knew this time McCormick would put up a fight. As a prison guard, he definitely had the upper hand--but out on the streets, it would be a different story. Since he was working alone, he figured it would work best to go after these two one at a time, to increase the odds in his favor. And, no matter what _Boller's_ reason was for this little scheme, Padilla wanted to use McCormick as a pawn in his _own_ little plan. His sadistic mind wanted to pick up where he left off with this inmate. Nearly two years had gone by, but the bad taste that still was in his mouth was at the forefront of his mind. He had been pulling down $50k a month being a mule for Boller, and to have the rug pulled out from under him by a prisoner was something he wasn't going to forget quickly. Boller had given him some of the background on these two--apparently McCormick was in the judge's custody in some sort of weird parole arrangement, and they were like a modern day crime-fighting duo. Padilla thought that maybe if he snatched McCormick, he might be able to hold him on some sort of a ransom, to lure the judge into a trap as well. He put his hand down to his waist and felt the .38 caliber revolver with satisfaction.

Padilla had checked the grounds and the gatehouse and couldn't find McCormick, so he wandered over to the main house and spotted him though the den window sitting in one of the leather chairs watching TV. He was formulating a plan on how to get in the house and grab the kid when something caught his attention. McCormick had shut off the TV and then the lights in the den and had moved toward another room. Padilla watched from the outside and saw other lights of the first floor of the house going off. McCormick was either heading upstairs or would be coming out to the gatehouse. Padilla took a chance and headed over to the other structure. He went inside and waited in the dark.

About ten minutes later he heard the door handle turn as McCormick entered and immediately went to turn on a light. As he did, he saw Padilla sitting on his couch pointing a gun at him. Mark was speechless. Padilla was the last person he'd ever think he'd see in the flesh again. Part of him thought it was a dream, yet here Padilla was in the flesh. His heart started to race at what he saw and his mouth fell open in shock.

Padilla let out that laugh. That antagonizing laugh of his that made the bile rise up in Mark's throat. "Long time no _see_, huh, McCormick?" He laughed again. "Remember _me_? Don't be afraid...I'm not a ghost."

"What the hell do you want?" Mark said, noticing the gun that Padilla held was trained at his head.

Padilla stood up and moved closer to McCormick. "I'm glad you asked. I want to finish what I started. I don't know about you, but I hate not completing a task once I start it."

Mark wasn't about to back down. "I don't much care if I complete tasks myself, because there's always something else waiting next in line. I'd just as soon watch a movie or take a dip in the pool."

Padilla was not amused. He held the gun right at Mark's temple for a few seconds, then stepped back and laughed again. "This is going to be fun--breaking you and that smart mouth of yours once and for all. I almost did it the _last _time, remember? I am going to put you through hell, Mr. McCormick...like I wanted to do at San Quentin."

"If you think I'm going to go through that again without a fight this time, you're stupider than I thought, Vic. We're not in prison anymore." Mark said, using the CO's first name to show him that the playing field was now level. "You're gonna have to kill me right here, because I'm not letting you torture me again." McCormick moved away from the other man to give himself some space and to think of a plan.

"You seem to forget _I_ have the gun, and this time I'm not afraid to leave a mark on your body. Don't worry though, I'm not going to kill you right off. You're gonna know what's happening the whole time," Padilla boasted. "When you were in the hole, I had to be creative, to inflict pain without the external scars, so that no one else would see...but it seems you've been carrying some on the inside though. You haven't _forgotten_ what I did to you, have you?" McCormick didn't answer. "So if you want to do this the hard way, we can do that. Perhaps you'd like it if I started by blowing apart your kneecap? I know that would leave a scar, but you wouldn't die from that right away."

As Padilla aimed the gun at Mark's leg, McCormick decided to lunge at him and a fight ensued, the two of them struggling and rolling around on the floor. Mark attempted to get the revolver out of Padilla's hands, but was kneed in his gut, temporarily knocking the wind out of him and causing him to lose his grip on the gunman's arm. As McCormick tried again to grab the weapon, Padilla squeezed the trigger. The bullet grazed the left side of Mark's head, sending him sprawling backwards against the couch and then landing with a thud on the floor, unconscious from the blow.

Padilla sat up quickly and put the gun in his pocket. He scrambled over to where McCormick was and looked him over. _This was perfect_, he thought as he saw a small trickle of blood forming just below Mark's left temple and trailing back into his hair. The wound was enough for him to gain the control over McCormick that he needed, but the younger man was far from dead. Padilla pulled out a set of handcuffs and secured them on Mark's wrists. Standing up, he took a hold of them and dragged McCormick outside. Opening up the trunk of his car, he heaved him inside and closed the lid.

It was about twenty minutes to the old abandoned warehouse, and Padilla made sure no one had seen him enter. He'd been there several times in the past few days to get things 'set up' and knew there were no close neighbors to notice his movements.

When he opened up the trunk, McCormick was still unconscious for the most part, although it appeared that he was trying to wake up. Padilla looked at the head wound once again and saw that it was just a graze. He slapped McCormick in the face a couple of times, wanting him to be awake for this. "Come on there, wake up for Sergeant Padilla," he said, grabbing hold of the handcuffs and pulling Mark painfully from the trunk. Mark was awake enough to stumble out, but as his feet made contact with the warehouse floor, his legs gave out momentarily and he collapsed.

Padilla still had a hold of the handcuffs and yanked McCormick to a standing position. "_Get up_! I'm not carrying you or dragging you anymore."

Mark got to his feet as he attempted to make some sense of what was going on. His head was swimming from the bullet graze. He saw two Padilla's, and even shutting his eyes tightly and reopening them wasn't clearing his vision. It was hard for him to even maintain his balance as he walked. With his hands, he reached up and felt a trickle of blood on the side of his head, but he couldn't remember what happened. Did Padilla take him out of prison? No, he wasn't in prison anymore, he lived with Hardcastle, but where did Padilla come from and why _now_? Was he dreaming this? Mark didn't know where he was. It appeared to be some sort of big empty warehouse where the windows had all been boarded up, and it was fairly dark inside except for a few lights that were being powered by a small generator. Padilla yanked at the handcuffs again and McCormick followed.

"Padilla, what the hell are you _doing_ to me?"

"I'm going to finish what I started two years ago, remember? I wanted to kill you back then, but someone got to the warden and pulled the plug on me. I never counted on you knowing someone on the inside. I never did figure out whether it was another con or some eagle scout CO. They actually sent me to _jail_, do you know that? All those years I had to put up with scum like you and suddenly I was one of you."

McCormick had to smile. "Maybe if you hadn't broken the law, you wouldn't have had to worry about it."

Padilla turned quickly, dropped hold of the cuffs and backhanded his right hand against Mark's face. The blow sent him sprawling to the ground. "I'm gonna _enjoy_ this, this time. That smart mouth of yours is going to be your demise."

While Mark was trying to clear the cobwebs again, Padilla grabbed the leg irons off the wall and attached them to McCormick, who tried to kick and fight, but when Padilla smacked him a couple of more times in the head and face, he was unable to prevent it. "Padilla, you're insane, you're not gonna get away with this," Mark gasped, spitting up a mouthful of blood.

"No one's gonna find you, and once I finish with you, I'm going to take care of that _judge_, too." Padilla laughed again. "I never did get the chance to break you down completely." He stood up and towered over Mark. "Get up and walk over to that wall."

"I'm not doing anything for you, Padilla, so you better think again," Mark said, staying put on the floor.

Padilla was tempted to pull out the gun, but he realized McCormick was hoping he'd end it sooner rather than later. And he clearly wanted to make McCormick suffer. Mark was prepared to fight him, and when Padilla came toward him, McCormick lunged at him and another brawl ensued. Padilla still had the upper hand with Mark's hands and legs being shackled, but McCormick managed to get in a few good licks to leave some scars of his own. Padilla kicked Mark in the side several times with his steel-toed boots. Mark cringed when thought he felt one of his ribs crack, and he let out a painful moan. Vic used the moment to reach down, pull him to his feet, and drag him over to the wall where he locked the leg shackles to the floor. He then took the handcuffs and relocked them behind McCormick's back, securing them to the wall as well. "So, where's the smart mouth _now_?" Vic asked, panting.

_Where are you and your smart mouth this morning?_ Hardcastle wondered. It was almost 8:30 on the following day, and the judge had fixed breakfast for the two of them a half-hour ago. It was safe to say the eggs were cold by now. It wasn't really like the kid to be late and inconsiderate, but then again, the kid hadn't been himself lately. Hardcastle had called the contractor the afternoon before and had made arrangements for them to come out and tear down the bomb shelter this morning while he and Mark were out. Maybe that would help clear the kid's head. There was no use keeping an ugly reminder of his past around. Milt decided to hoof over to the gatehouse and find out what this morning's hold-up was.

He gave a quick, but polite knock and entered, calling out Mark's name. There was no response, and he saw the signs of a small struggle on the living room floor. "_McCormick_?" he called out again, and quickly ascended the stairs to see an empty loft. He knocked on the bathroom door and looked in the kitchen. No one was there. Going back outside, he walked over to the garage and saw the Coyote was still there, next to the Corvette. Something was definitely wrong.

In just under twenty minutes Hardcastle was downtown at Frank Harper's office. "McCormick's gone and the gatehouse is torn up. I think Boller got to him, Frank," Milt said, as he paced back and forth.

"You might be on to something here, Milt," Harper agreed. "I never figured Boller to turn to kidnapping, but I think I may have found a connection between Mark and Boller that neither one of us knew about. In fact, I don't think _Mark_ even realizes it."

"Do you want to fill me in here, Frank?" Hardcastle asked.

"Milt, sit down," he said, gesturing for him to take a seat. Hardcastle reluctantly agreed and let out a deep breath. "When you told me that Mark had done some time in solitary, I started to snoop around--and I think I'm on to something." Frank went to his office door and motioned for someone to enter. "Agent Lamparski, come on in. This is Judge Milton Hardcastle. He's been working with Mark McCormick for the last six months. Milt, this is Special Agent Tom Lamparski."

Milt stood up and shook Lamparski's hand. "I'm not following this, Frank--what's this got to do with McCormick and Boller?"

"Lieutenant, maybe I can explain," Tom began, sitting down next to Hardcastle. "I met Mark at San Quentin, Judge Hardcastle. I was a CO there, a plant actually. I'm a federal agent for the Department of Corrections. It's my job to prosecute abuses in the prison system. We knew that someone in there was working both sides of the yard. We just had to find out who and then get the evidence and someone to back it up"

"And _McCormick_ figured it out, didn't he? He told me he knew there was a CO who was dealing." Milt had to smile. The kid was already busting bad guys way back in the joint.

Lamparski nodded. "There was a CO there that put him in solitary segregation. A guy named Victor Padilla. It seems that McCormick was keeping his eye on old Victor as he passed drugs from the outside in. But Padilla was actually working for an inmate...making a pretty good living from it, too."

"Let me guess...the _inmate_ was Boller?" the judge asked.

Tom nodded his head affirmatively. "McCormick got too close. He was creating too many waves. Boller didn't like the fact that some prisoner was trying to shut down his operation. And a lot of people turned their backs so they didn't have to see it, including about 90 percent of the CO's and about all the inmates. Mark tried to tell me a couple of times that he suspected Padilla, but I had to maintain some distance to avoid blowing my cover. I needed him to figure out the link to Boller, but I don't think he ever made that connection. But Boller sure knew about him. He sent down the order to take McCormick to the hole. And Padilla was more than happy to do that. He was a nutcase, he liked to torture guys just for looking at him sideways."

"So you let him go to solitary till he could get you more evidence?" Milt was outraged.

"I'm not proud of that, Judge. When I found out that McCormick was in the hole, I overrode my superiors in Sacramento and went straight to the Warden with what I had. It wasn't soon enough, though. It took nearly ten days for him to believe there was a serious problem going on with one of his officers. He wanted to be 100 percent positive. Mark's cellie, a guy named Paulie Abrogazzio, finally gave us what we needed."

"And Padilla _tortured _McCormick in there, didn't he?" Hardcastle asked in disbelief. "For _ten _days. And no one did anything to stop it?" Now Milt was disgusted. No wonder McCormick didn't want to talk about it. "Well, what happened then?"

"We arrested Padilla," Tom explained.

"And _Boller_?" Milt was already piecing things together, "...he got _out_, didn't he, for turning evidence on Padilla?" Lamparski confirmed Hardcastle's deduction by nodding.

"Does anyone know where this Padilla clown is now?" Milt asked. "And please tell me he's serving time somewhere."

"He did about a year for his part of the operation and he's been out ever since. I don't think he's still in contact with Boller anymore, but I'm running down a few leads as we speak, just to check, " the special agent commented.

Hardcastle hung his head. Just thinking of what Mark had endured made him nearly want to cry for the kid. McCormick wasn't a _saint_, but he certainly didn't deserve a round of prison torture--no one did. Prison was supposed to be about rehabilitation, not violence. "What happened to Mark after you got him out of the hole?" Hardcastle had to ask Lamparski.

"You mean what did Padilla do to him inside there?"

Hardcastle didn't answer, he just glared at Lamparski and waited.

"Near as we could tell, Padilla mainly played some mind games with him. Manipulating lights for day/night abuse, withholding food, letting him wallow in filth...and we think he kept dousing him with cold water--it was all over his cell, his bunk--it was a mess in there. He was chained to the wall when we found him. They even brought in another inmate to beat the daylights out of him one time"

"And _after_? What happened to him then?" Hardcastle asked.

"He had pneumonia, cuts, bruises, infection, some sort of rash all over his body...we took him to the infirmary and healed him up. Then they sent him back to general population."

"What about a psychologist or a psychiatrist--did you let him _talk_ about it with anyone?" Lamparski looked away silently in shame as Hardcastle began to rant. "You let him go through _all that_--he figured out who the dirty CO was, and he went to the hole for it, and you just let him work it out in his head on his _own_? Is _that_ how you treat a witness? For crying out loud, he busted up a drug ring involving an inmate and a correctional officer, and you people put him back in with lunatics?" The judge was more than angry. "And he should have gotten a reduced sentence after that as well. How come none of this is in his record?"

"Like I said, Judge, I'm not proud of the part I played in this," Lamparski replied. "I was new at the job, still green. I wanted to do everything by the book, and that's what happened. I can't tell you why it's not in his record, but I can find out."

"We gotta find McCormick quick, because he's about ready to snap over all this," Hardcastle said. "And I can't say that I blame him."

Johnny Wilson drove out to the warehouse, following the instructions Boller had given him. When he stepped into the large room, he saw Padilla using McCormick as a punching bag, smacking his fists into Skid's midsection like he was a piece of meat. Padilla heard him coming and stopped.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" he called out.

"Boller sent me over with a special delivery for our friend here. Thought you might get a kick out of using this on him." Wilson held out a syringe as he came closer.

Padilla laughed and took it. McCormick lifted up his weary head and looked over, trying to see who had come in. He recognized the voice, but it took him another minute or so to place him.

"Johnny Wilson?" he asked.

"Hey, he _remembers_ me, whatta ya know? Yeah, it's me, Skid, long time, no see," Wilson replied.

"_You're_ in this? When did you get out?" Mark was trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head, but not much of this was making sense. How did Padilla even know he was having flashbacks about San Quentin, and why were these two hooked together?

This time Wilson laughed and said to Padilla, "I thought he was some sort of genius...this is the guy who figured it all out, right?"

McCormick narrowed his eyes and started adding up all the clues. Padilla had passed drugs to Wilson. Paulie told him that Wilson was just a runner for the major drug action, which had to have been Boller, who he and the judge were going after now. Padilla and Wilson were in cahoots with Boller all along. That's why Wilson had been in solitary too, to rough him up, because Padilla couldn't. _Oh, McCormick, you should have figured this one out in Quentin_, was all he could think. His only hope was that Hardcastle would nail Boller, and then find him in time before these two weirdos tortured him to death.

"I think he just figured it out now," Padilla said, inching closer. He grabbed a handful of Mark's hair and pulled back his head, "_Didn't_ you? We work for Boller. And you just could never keep from being the cavalry, _could_ you, you boy scout hero, you." He let go of McCormick's head and, stepping back, leveled off a kick to his midsection. "It's almost a shame to waste this smack on you," Padilla remarked with a sneer. He turned back to Wilson and asked, "You got a rubber band for his arm?"

"Yeah, right here." Wilson held it out.

"Put it on him."

Wilson moved in and secured the band around McCormick's arm. Padilla moved in with the syringe, found a vein and injected the poison into Mark. "This might make you forget for a little while, McCormick, but when reality sets back in, you'll be begging us for mercy." Padilla angrily pulled out the syringe and tossed it on the floor.

As they stepped away from McCormick, Wilson commented, "Boller wants to know how it's going here."

"What does it _look_ like? He wanted me to torture him, so that's what I'm doing."

"Well, what's the plan for that judge? He wants you to take care of him too."

Padilla looked over to McCormick and, seeing the cocaine was starting to take effect, laughed. His captive had a euphoric look on his face. Replying to Wilson's query, he said, "I thought about sending him a ransom note, but I think I might just grab him and kill him too." He walked back over to McCormick. "Would you _like _that, Skid? I'll grab your friend the judge and bring him here and kill him in front of you. How'd you like that?" McCormick let out a sick kind of laugh. "Hear that?" Padilla chuckled, "I think he agrees."

Mark sucked in a deep breath, trying to fight the effects of the cocaine, and shouted, "Do whatever you want to _me_, Padilla--leave Hardcastle alone!"

Wilson and Padilla smirked at each other. "He thinks he's gonna tell us what to do," Padilla said. He slapped McCormick in the face, "You never learn, McCormick. _I'm_ the one who's got the control. You need to just hang there and enjoy the little ride we just gave you." He walked away and grabbed Wilson by the shoulder. "You better get out of here...just tell Boller that I'll take care of everything."

Wilson pulled out a couple more syringes and handed them to Padilla. "Here's a couple of extra jolts for him, if you want to use them, or save them for the old man...whatever." 

Padilla grabbed them and set them on a nearby crate. "I'll call Boller when it's through."

Wilson nodded, waved and exited the warehouse.

"Milt, there's no one at Padilla's apartment, and I left a man there just in case he shows up. None of his high-class neighbors have seen him over the last several days. Which may mean we're on to something," Frank said, walking into his office with the jurist.

"Of course we are." Milt replied. "I'd bet a million dollars that Padilla and Boller are back together again. We just need something on Boller or something that connects them here on the outside".

"I think we got it," Tom Lamparski announced as he entered the room, "Frank, one of your units just spotted Johnny Wilson. They called in a broken tail light and the dispatch ran the plates. I told them not to pull him over yet, but to follow him. We'll see who he leads us to."

"_Who's _Johnny Wilson?" Hardcastle asked.

"He was a runner on the inside for Boller at the same time McCormick was in Quentin...and we can also link him to Padilla's drug work," Lamparski informed him.

"Well, this is the best break we've had," Milt said. "Let's get over to Boller's, Frank."

The cocaine had definitely given Mark a high. For awhile his broken and battered body didn't feel all too bad, but coming off the euphoria of the drug, he had the sensation of spiraling in a downward direction. He felt so utterly alone. Padilla had gone off to another area of the warehouse and Mark was by himself, surrounded by the silence, by this new prison he was being held in. He didn't like it any better than the last one.

And then another flashback hit him. The memories came out of nowhere and fell upon him in seconds. This time he knew it was the cocaine that made them come to the surface. He couldn't shake the images of prison no matter what he tried to do to take his mind off of his past. His senses were on overload even around Gull's Way. His brain played tricks on him when dealing with everyday chores, reminding him of his time inside...of being in the hole. Things like the stench of stale garbage, cold water in the shower, bugs, and heavy duty chlorine-smelling cleaning products would make him shudder, sending his mind hurdling back in time to that terrible place.

He'd always alluded to Hardcastle that his experience in prison was more like an annoying experience--two years of his life wasted inside a very forgettable place. A place that he endured by being as active as possible. It was easier to think of it in terms of a smart aleck answer, than to think of the reality of extreme loneliness, despair, isolation, fear, torment and ultimately torture. Inside of him he had a deep longing for survival at all costs, knowing that someday maybe he could come out on the other side and be better for it. He never ventured to share a discussion about being put in solitary confinement with Hardcase. He knew the ten days he did was noted, but it was at his insistence that nothing else would go in his record. The Warden had made the deal with him directly when he was still in the infirmary. Looking back, he now realized that the Warden went along with it just to keep him silent. If he'd been more legal-savvy he probably could have worked a reduced sentence, too. McCormick didn't want any record of the torture anywhere in print. Hardcase had alluded to knowing about the ten days, but that was _all_ he'd ever know about it if Mark had his way. McCormick thought that if he let out this dark side of himself, that that's who would remain, and he didn't want to be that person. It would be like losing or failing, and that just wasn't a part of who he wanted the world to see in him. And he couldn't let anything happen to _Hardcastle_ either because of it. How was he going to get out of this mess? How was he going to keep Padilla or Boller from doing anything to Milt? He wanted to do the right thing, but was helpless. It was just like Quentin all over again. Why was doing the right thing always the _hardest_ thing to do?

_Hardcastle_…Mark shook his head just thinking about the judge. In just a short of amount of time, the retired jurist had gotten under his skin with his pursuit of right and wrong. During this 'feeling out' process McCormick discovered that he thrived on the prospect of teaming up with this modern-day superhero all in the name of law and order. It was finally a chance to do things the right way. _No_, he couldn't let these madmen do anything to Hardcastle. Not before he could talk to the judge himself, and tell him all the things he wanted to say to him.

Aside from Paulie and Buddy Denton, he never bothered to expand on his experiences in the hole to anyone. Guys inside knew he spent time there, but you learned real quick not to ask or offer information about Seg. Most of the stories that were known were true, but no one really confirmed any information. Maybe the hole was a lot different for other guys; he only knew the hell of what it had turned out to be for himself. The only reason Paulie and Buddy knew was that he had told them a little bit. Paulie, no longer his cellie after the experience, caught up with him out in the yard one day and was taken aback by Mark's gaunt appearance. Buddy, Mark's new cellie, saw him that first evening when he came out of the infirmary and could only imagine what sort of nightmare the kid had had to endure. And at the time, McCormick had to tell some of it to someone. Buddy was like a psychiatrist. He did a lot more listening than talking, and he never made any judgments. The 'confessions' and Buddy's quiet support had been enough to help Mark push the memory down deep enough for it to be hidden away for several years. It was exactly what McCormick needed at the time, and he'd never forget all that Buddy had done for him. He vowed he'd try to pay back the kindness some day. Mark sighed. How could he ever begin to tell it all again to Hardcase? He'd never understand...and there was no way to even begin the conversation. "_Hey, Judge, let me tell you about my ten days in the hole--it gives a whole new meaning to the word 'torture'_." Nah, there was no way that would ever fly with the judge. And would he think that McCormick was exaggerating the whole experience or, worse still, _lying_? There were a lot of things Hardcastle understood, but prison and solitary confinement weren't among them. Nope, this would be one thing in his life he'd take to the grave. He wanted to bury the part of his brain that held onto the memory. For nearly two years he'd managed to control it, to hide it--but now it was a full-bore invasion to the front of his mind, thanks to a stupid bomb shelter.

_With what little strength he could muster, he ripped the bug-infested prison clothes off his ravaged body and threw the shreds to the farthest corner of the cell. He scooted back to the opposite corner and huddled against the wall. He had only one hope left to get him through this hell. He looked upward and prayed._

_He didn't know how long he sat in the corner of the cell, but suddenly the door opened up and a bunch of people who looked like doctors or nurses came in the disgusting room. When he woke up 18 hours later, he was in the prison infirmary._

McCormick must have dozed off, because when he came to, Padilla was heading toward him from the other corner of the warehouse. Mark could feel the religious medal his mother had given him many years earlier as it clung around his neck. No matter what was about to happen, he'd do the same thing he did in Quentin. He began to pray.

Johnny Wilson drove around town for a few hours, stopping at a convenience store and a record store right before he led the cops right to Boller's front door at the hotel. Now they just needed for Wilson to come out, bust him on the broken tail light, and ask him a few other very pointed questions.

About an hour later Wilson and Boller came out of the hotel together, shook hands, got into cars and went in separate directions. Frank and some of his men followed Wilson, while Hardcastle and other police units went after Boller.

Wilson headed for the warehouse, parking about two blocks away and walking the rest of the way. He kept looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him, and then entered through a side door. Frank noticed a dark Chevy sedan parked by the warehouse entrance and radioed the police dispatcher to have someone run the plate for ID. In a few minutes, the response came back that it was listed under Padilla's name. Harper immediately organized the other officers with him and stormed the building.

Hardcastle heard the radio broadcast of Frank's messages from inside the police car he was in and made the decision to pull Boller over. The cop flipped on the sirens, but when Boller spotted the cruiser, he took off and led them on a wild chase, eventually crashing into a telephone pole. Hardcastle yanked him out of the car just before it blew up.

"You don't have anything on me, Hardcastle! You can't just chase me down whenever you feel like it," Boller blustered. "I have _rights_, you know!"

"We can connect you to Wilson and Padilla this time, and we know they've got McCormick right now...plus you just fled from a police officer. The charges against you are piling up as we speak, Boller. Looks like you'll be back inside for a long time, and this time I'll _personally _make sure you don't run your syndicate from the joint." The judge put handcuffs on Padilla and thrust him towards an officer and told him to read him his rights. As they started to put Boller in the back of the patrol car, Hardcastle said to him, "McCormick better be all right, too."

"Yeah, or _what_?" Boller retorted.

"You don't even want to know, Jerry." Hardcastle replied. He motioned to the officers. "Get this piece of garbage out of here, and let's get over to that warehouse."

Padilla heard the police sirens approaching and he decided he needed to ramp up his attack on McCormick. He pulled out another syringe of Cocaine and injected it into Mark and then grabbed a nearby lead pipe and laid it into McCormick's midsection. At that point, a police car came driving right into the building, and Frank Harper stepped out from behind the driver's side door. He saw Wilson and Padilla standing together talking and, to his horror, Mark off in the corner...hanging from the wall with chains.

Johnny Wilson took off on foot, followed by another unit that quickly cornered him, and he gave up peacefully. Harper called out to Padilla to drop the weapon as a flood of officers began to fill the nearly empty warehouse. Padilla held his ground, prepared to take yet another whack at McCormick who, from where Frank stood, looked to be about two seconds from death. "I _said_, drop it _now_, Padilla!" the lieutenant commanded.

Padilla turned to see the police beginning to surround him and he knew that he was out of time. He started to swing the pipe he held, figuring that if he was going down, he was going to take McCormick with him, but before he hit anything, Frank Harper unloaded six shots from his automatic pistol and Padilla dropped to the ground. The SWAT officers surrounded the body, removing the weapons he had. Harper quickly went over to McCormick. "I _gotcha_, Mark," Frank said, holding him upright while the SWAT officer used a bolt cutter to release him from his restraints. McCormick collapsed into Frank's arms, and the cop gently lowered him to the ground. "Get those cuffs and the leg irons off right away," Frank said to the other officer, who started working on the chains. "And someone call for an ambulance!" he shouted. He turned to his young friend. "You're gonna be all right, Mark, just hang in there, okay?" He wasn't sure of McCormick's consciousness level. The kid's face was a bruised and bloodied mess.

Mark managed to peer through his swollen eyelids to see that it was Harper. He lifted up one of his hands and patted the lieutenant on his chest. "_Frank_?" he managed to croak out.

"Yeah, it's me, Mark. You're okay now, we got you, take it easy."

"_Hardcase_?" he asked.

"He's chasing after Boller with some of my guys...he'll be right here, Mark, as soon as they capture him."

"Frank, don't let..." McCormick paused to get a breath and to try to clear his throat, "...don't let Hardcase in here. Don't want him to _see_ this."

"Okay Mark, will do," he agreed for now just to pacify the kid. "The paramedics will be here soon and we'll take you to the hospital and get you all fixed up. He can see you there."

"Frank…can't let him in here, _promise_?"

"Yeah, yeah, I promise." Harper had to wonder which one of the two was more stubborn--most days it was an evened-up draw. He already knew that Hardcastle would come barreling in here once he caught up with Boller. "Can I at least _radio_ him and let him know you're okay?"

That comment managed to get the beginnings of a grin out of McCormick. "Yeah, okay, meet at hospital."

Frank nodded. He could only do so much. He glanced down at Mark who now looked like he'd drifted into unconsciousness.

An ambulance pulled into the warehouse and the medics took over from Frank, who stood up and called out to another officer. "Did they catch up with Boller yet?"

"Yes, sir...they just radioed in about three minutes ago, no injuries reported there," the officer said. "And Judge Hardcastle is on his way back here."

"Great," Frank said, looking down to McCormick who was already being placed on a stretcher.

"Frank?" Mark called out to him.

"Yeah, Mark, what is it?" Harper leaned over to hear the young man.

"Is Hardcase all right?"

"He's just fine, Mark; he's on his way. You need to let the paramedics take care of you...just rest easy." He leaned down and gently kept the kid from trying to sit up on the gurney.

"They didn't hurt him?"

"Nope, not a scratch. He's out there chasing after the bad guys now."

The news seemed to calm McCormick down and he drifted off. One of the paramedics remarked, "He's got a deep gash on the left side of his head here; it almost looks like a gunshot wound. He'll probably have a concussion. I'm surprised he's even as coherent as he seems to be. This guy's been to hell and back."

Just then, Hardcastle came rushing up to them. "Frank, how _is_ he?" The judge tried to push past Harper to get a look at Mark.

"They think he has a concussion, they're still assessing him, but he seems to be holding his own, Milt."

Hardcastle got closer and took his first look at the kid. Mark's face looked like raw hamburger. "Oh, _God_, kiddo, what did they do to you?" He could see the kid was unconscious. He turned his attention to the lieutenant. "What the hell did they _do_ to him, Frank?"

"Tried to beat the life out of him, that's how it appears," Frank murmured as he shook his head in sorrow. "Looks like they injected him with something too, there's a couple of empty syringes over there. _Sorry SOB's_. Sometimes I really hate this job."

"Where's this Padilla guy?" Hardcastle asked as he glanced around the warehouse and saw a body lying about 50 feet away.

"I killed him," Frank said. "He was about to beat McCormick again, so I backed him off permanently."

"That's him over there?" Milt asked pointing.

Frank nodded.

"That was probably too good for him...and _Wilson_?" Milt asked.

"He tried to run away but we got him. He's singing like a bird right now, trying to get some sort of a deal already."

Milt turned his attention back to McCormick, though he was trying to stay out of the way of the paramedics who were wrapping up his head wound and starting an IV. They'd also placed a nasal cannula on him for oxygen. Hardcastle recognized one of the EMT's, Jon Andrews, and asked him, "How's it look?"

The medic looked up grimly and responded, "We need to get him to the hospital quickly, Judge. Besides the head injury, it looks like he may have some busted ribs and maybe a punctured lung. He's got some deep bruising all over his chest and stomach and his ankle is about twice its normal size. There isn't a place on him that doesn't have some sort of wound. We'll make room in the ambulance if you want to come along?"

The judge nodded, then backed away for a moment to give the paramedics room to finish their work. "Was he conscious at all?" he asked Harper.

"Yeah, I talked with him. He was worried about _you_--wanted to make sure you were all right," Frank replied.

"_Me_? _He's _the one they kidnapped."

"I think they led him to believe they did something to you," Frank had to smile. "And I'm not sure he's altogether with us here, Milt. Besides, he _always_ worries about you."

"So this was some sort of torture chamber?" Hardcastle looked around, "Boller said it was better accommodations than the hole." He gritted his teeth angrily. " I should have _left _him in the burning car instead of pulling him out."

"Hey, it's over now, and Mark's alive." Frank knew Hardcastle well enough to know that he probably really wanted to do the same thing to Boller that Padilla had done to Mark, and finish it off by pumping a few rounds of ammunition into the drug lord, but the law and order side of him was maintaining control.

"Judge Hardcastle, he's coming around again," Andrews called out.

Milt quickly spun around and knelt down next to the gurney. "Hey there, kiddo. You're going to be all right; we're on our way to the hospital."

"_Hardcase_?" Mark whispered.

"Yeah, I'm right here, Mark. I'm gonna ride in with you--you're safe now."

"How come there's _two _of you?" McCormick asked him groggily

Hardcastle looked over to the paramedics and then back down at Mark. "They think you might have a concussion. Nothing to worry about. It'll clear up soon enough."

"Yeah, I can barely handle one of you," McCormick slurred, as his eyes closed down once again.

Hardcastle had to smile--even though the kid was a mess, he was still cracking jokes. In an unusual burst of outward emotion, Milt reached out with his hand and gently laid it on the kid's curly head. "Rest easy there, kiddo," he added softly.

While the EMT's loaded the gurney into the ambulance, Milt grabbed Harper by the elbow and said, "I hope your boys are charging Boller with attempted murder."

"At the very least, Milt--we're gonna nail him for everything we can make stick."

"Judge, we're ready to go," one of the medics called out to him.

Hardcastle gave him a wave and then said to Frank, "You know where I'll be, if you need a statement or anything."

"I'll find you, Milt. You'd better get going," Harper responded as the jurist climbed in the back of the ambulance. "Take care of McCormick."

"How's he _doing_, Jon?" Milt asked as they drove off.

"He's sustained quite a beating, Judge, but right now his vital signs are stable," the paramedic said with the hint of a smile.

"You talking 'bout me?" McCormick asked through closed eyes.

"Yeah kiddo, we are," Hardcastle said. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts to breathe," Mark whispered, opening up his eyes to look at Milt.

Jon put his stethoscope on and leaned over to listen to Mark's lungs. Then he leaned back and turned up the oxygen a little higher. "That should help, Mark--just try to take some deep breaths."

"Frank got Padilla, emptied his gun on him, I think," Mark said to Hardcastle. "Didn't know he was involved with Boller, should have figured that a whole lot sooner, like back in the joint," McCormick sort of shook his head in despair at the fact he hadn't put it all together. His breathing was becoming worse as he began to wheeze.

Jon listened again to his lungs again and frowned. He called out to his partner who was driving to step on it. Hardcastle didn't like the look or the sound of that at all, and he saw the worry increase in Mark's eyes.

"Listen, kiddo, don't worry about any of that right now." Hardcastle said reassuringly. "You should just stay quiet until we get to the hospital. Save your strength for the tough questions the doctors will be asking you,"

"Not worried 'bout doctors." Mark paused, "_nurses_ though, _'nother_ story." Hardcastle held back from smiling, because even though he thought it was amusing that the kid was already thinking of prowling for nurses, he also saw the severity of his condition. "Feels like heart attack," McCormick added before Hardcastle could say anything.

"We're about a minute away from the hospital, Judge," Jon stated. "And it's not a heart attack, it just probably feels that way. Mark, we think you might have punctured a lung. Don't worry, the doctors will get you fixed right up. Try not to talk."

"Having him not talk is a pretty tall order, Jon ...isn't that _right_, kiddo?" McCormick caught Hardcastle's eye and managed to give him a wink. Besides it was too hard for him to talk or even stay awake much longer. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

Hardcastle spent his time pacing the emergency room floor and drinking tepid cups of coffee from the nearby community pot. He was getting tired of waiting, though--that was for sure. It was a slow afternoon in the ER. He was the only person there, thankfully, so that made him a little happier. He hated the thought of having to make small talk with people when there was only one important thing on his mind--the condition of his friend. A nurse came out after an hour or so and collected some information from him about McCormick --his medical history, insurance, next-of-kin, etc. She told him that he had stabilized, but that the doctor was still running several tests.

It was about three hours after they had brought Mark in when a tall, thin, gray haired doctor approached him. "_Mr. Hardcastle_?"

"Yes, I'm Milt Hardcastle," he said, standing up to shake the doctor's hand. "How's Mark?"

The doctor motioned for Milt to follow him to a consultation area. "I'm Dr. Kaplan, I've been treating your son."

"Uh, he's not exactly my son," Milt paused. "Um, I'm his legal guardian," he added, trying to best explain their situation without going into too much detail. Truth be told, he himself wasn't sure how to best define their "kinship".

The doctor seemed satisfied with the rather vague explanation of their relationship so he proceeded. "I understand from the police and paramedic reports that Mark was brutally beaten. What I can tell you right now is we believe we have his most critical injuries stabilized. He's got a concussion that looks like it was caused by a gunshot wound to the left side of his head. Luckily it was only a graze--a few millimeters over and we probably wouldn't even be standing here discussing his condition. So we're keeping a close eye on that. I understand he was complaining about double vision--that's one of the side effects. We'll have to be sure that clears up. And we want to check out his auditory system—his hearing--and make sure he's functioning at 100 percent there too. It looks like he was beaten repeatedly on his chest, ribcage and back with something that appears to be a bat. From the x-rays, we counted five cracked ribs and three more that are broken. One of those did _indeed_ puncture a lung as the paramedics indicated to you, so we put in a chest tube to re-inflate it and we're keeping an eye on that. It looks like he also had some cocaine in his system, so he may have some after effects of that as well. Does Mr. McCormick use drugs?"

"No, uh, the police said there were syringes all over the place they found him—they think the attacker injected him." Hardcastle said, still in disbelief over everything he was hearing.

The doctor nodded and continued on with the litany of injuries. "We're also watching an area that could indicate some internal bleeding. Right now it just appears deeply bruised, but I'm afraid any kind of impetus might open it up, and if that happens we'll have to operate. We want to keep him quiet and still as much as possible. The orthopedic surgeon is on his way down right now to take a look at his ankle, which is also fractured badly. He'll determine whether it needs surgery or whether it can be set. The nurses and interns have done a remarkable job at getting him stitched and cleaned up. Would you like to see him before Ortho comes down?"

Milt nodded and asked, "He's gonna be all right , though, Doc--_isn't_ he?"

Dr. Kaplan started down the hall with Milt walking beside him. "He should recovery fully, but it will take awhile. And he might want to consider talking to a psychiatrist--this must have been quite an ordeal for him. The extent and severity of these injuries is almost inhuman. What people _do_ to each other is beyond me." Dr. Kaplan was obviously shaken up from what he had seen. "I understand the other man was killed by the police." He shook his head sorrowfully.

"Is Mark conscious now?"

"He's still been drifting in and out. We've got him on some heavy duty pain meds, so chances are he'll sleep for the next 24 hours or so, and in his condition that's probably the best thing for him." Dr. Kaplan pushed open the door to the ER and allowed Milt to go in first. Two nurses were still hovering around Mark, bandaging up some cuts.

As Milt got closer he did notice that the kid _did_ actually look better than he had in the warehouse. He seemed a bit more rested. He also noticed all the monitors, wires, tubes, cords and dripping solutions that were attached to him. He knew it was all necessary, some of it probably precautionary, but it gave him pause to think how close to death the kid was.

"We'll be done in just a second, Judge," one of the nurses said. She knew Hardcastle from years before when she worked in the oncology unit where his wife had been a patient. "We've been putting him through a lot of prodding and poking, and I think he's getting a little annoyed. He probably needs a break from us."

"Thanks, Alice," Milt said, giving her a smile.

"He's sort of been coming in and out of consciousness--trying to fight off the meds we think, because he keeps asking to see you. It's like he won't rest until he can speak to you." She stepped back to allow Milt to come over to the bed. "He's been out for a little while now, but go ahead and talk to him...he might just surprise us and wake up again."

Milt leaned over the rail of the bed and couldn't help but wonder what sort of hell that Mark had been through. The outward signs of bruises, cuts and abrasions were everywhere. He thought about what internal damage he might be suffering and also what his mind had to be thinking. "Hey there, kiddo, you're safe and sound in the hospital now. The doctors and nurses are taking real good care of you," he said softly. "You've got nothing to worry about. They patched you up and they're keeping a close eye on you, so you can just rest now."

The two nurses and Hardcastle were more than a bit astounded when McCormick's eyes began to flutter open. "_Judge_?" he asked his voice still raw and hoarse.

Surprised by the sound of his voice, Hardcastle said, "Yep, I'm right here, Mark. The nurses said you wanted to see me. You're all right now, just close your eyes and get some sleep. That's what the doctors want you to do. Don't try to talk...save your strength for your recovery."

"Wanted to make sure--you _okay_?" McCormick took in a deep a breath as possible.

Hardcastle saw the kid try to get a breath and could practically feel his pain. "_Me_? I'm fine, fit as a fiddle."

"God, everything _hurts_," Mark said, closing his eyes tightly to try to block the pain. Hardcastle noticed that he clenched his fists into tight balls. After the wave had subsided, he relaxed. "Gonna _die_?" he asked the judge, his voice shaking.

"No, you're _not_ gonna die!" Milt nearly shouted his affirmation with a bit of the Hardcase 'charm' in his voice. His curmudgeonly tone was comforting in and of itself to Mark. If Hardcastle had that edge, maybe things weren't quite so bad, even if it felt like his chest was being crushed. "You don't die till I say you're gonna die!...and it's sure not going to be at the hands of a couple of goons like Padilla or Boller," the jurist added.

"_Feels_ like I'm gonna die," McCormick whispered, and just as he was going to clench his fists again, Milt reached down and grabbed hold of his right hand, just in time for Mark to clutch on to it.

"Just hold on, kiddo, there you go." Milt felt Mark squeezing his hand tightly. "You know, it's time to quit being the _tough_ guy here, okay, pal? Maybe they can give you something else for the pain--let me ask the nurse."

"No, 's okay," Mark shook his head 'no' and wouldn't let go of Hardcastle's hand. "How'd you find out...'bout Padilla?"

Alice stood nearby and shook her head at Milt as if to say, 'don't encourage him to talk.'

"Look, McCormick, don't worry about any of that right now, these doctors and nurses are all trying to fix you up, and right now they just want you to get some sleep. So close your eyes, okay, and let the doctors help you." Another shock of pain must have hit Mark because he grasped Milt's hand even tighter and his eyes flew wide open. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep. I promise." Hardcastle tried to calm him down. "There's nothing for you to worry about. It's all over."

The kid tried to nod, at least that's what Milt thought he was doing--the good thing was that he wasn't talking. "That's it, just close your eyes. I'll be here when you wake up...we'll talk then." The judge lowered his voice to a low murmur as McCormick gradually shut his eyes and loosened his grip on Hardcastle's hand. Milt released his grasp as well and said to Alice. "He's got a stubborn streak in him." He paused, clearing his throat. "Take good care of him."

As the other nurse stepped toward Mark and added another medication to his IV, she replied kindly, "We'll take care of him, Judge. You should try to get some rest yourself."

The judge wrinkled up his nose and shook his head. "I want to stick around and see what the orthopedic doctor says about his ankle...if he's got to have surgery...and then make sure he gets squared away in a room."

Alice had heard that Milt had a new 'project' in his life from some of the cops that had come into the ER over the last several months, and knowing how Hardcastle had been with his wife when she was up in Oncology, she knew better than to argue with him about going home to rest. Alice knew that he had stayed with Nancy around the clock, and he obviously had the same sort of compassion for Mark McCormick. She promised, "Judge, I'll come and get you just as soon as Dr. Hill examines Mark."

"Thanks, Alice. I appreciate that."

Milt went back to the waiting room and saw that Frank and Tom Lamparski were there. When they saw him approaching, they stood up.

"How's he doing, Milt?" Frank asked.

Hardcastle shook his head with frustration. "The doctor says he should pull through, but it's going to be a rough go of things for him; he's in a lot of pain. He might need an operation...there's another doctor looking at his ankle right now; it's smashed up pretty bad. Padilla shattered it in a million pieces." Harper and Lamparski heard the quiet rage in the judge's tone.

"Is there anything we can do, Judge?" Tom asked.

Milt blew out a deep breath. "No, thanks. I'm just going to wait and see what this new doctor says."

After a few minutes, the orthopedic doctor came out and told Hardcastle that he was taking Mark up to the OR to put several pins in his shattered ankle. The surgery would take several hours, as the doctor hoped to reconstruct and reset some areas of the crushed bone. He asked Hardcastle if he knew what had been used on Mark to cause such injury. Milt didn't, but Frank Harper informed the surgeon that the attacker apparently started the beating with his fists and feet, but had also used a piece of lead piping--which the crime lab had secured for evidence. Hearing that, Milt turned his head away in dismay. He'd seen what Mark _looked _like; he didn't need to hear how he got that way.

While McCormick was in surgery, Frank and Tom convinced Milt to grab a bite to eat in the hospital cafeteria. They did it primarily to get his mind off of the young man; plus, he needed to eat and they knew he wouldn't be leaving the hospital any time soon. He grudgingly went along, after numerous reassurances from Alice that if anything happened before he got back that someone would come and get him.

It was nearing 8:30 pm when they finally got McCormick settled into a room. He was still unconscious for the most part, and the lower part of his leg was elevated in a sling and encased in a heavy-duty brace, which would probably be removed down the road in favor of a cast. The floor nurse came out to the waiting area and told Judge Hardcastle he could go in to see him. He realized there wasn't much he could do for him, but going home to worry wasn't an option either. No, Milt would plant himself in a nearby chair just to make sure the kid had everything he needed, and if he woke up, he'd make sure he knew he wasn't alone.

A few hours after Milt had settled into a surprisingly comfortable hospital chair, McCormick started to show some signs of consciousness. Hardcastle was leaning on his right elbow catching a cat nap when he awoke from hearing Mark start to stir. The kid was mumbling something inaudible. Hardcastle scooted up on the edge of the chair and saw that McCormick's eyes were still closed, but an anguished expression was on his face. Mark started to toss and turn a little and let out groans of pain. After several minutes of this, he seemed to calm down and drift back into a more peaceful state, but then the restlessness started in again and his agitation became larger and louder.

"No….not anymore…..gotta stop_….can't_...!" Mark cried out, the moans turning into nightmarish jabber.

Milt stood up and reached over the side rail of the bed, laying his hand over Mark's in an effort to offer him some comfort. "It's _okay_, McCormick. You're all right now...go back to sleep." He patted his hand for extra reassurance.

"Can't take it….it's crushing….ribs…keeps _hitting_ me…no…no _more_…._God_ !," Mark was in agony.

"No one is gonna hurt you anymore, kiddo. You're in the hospital," Hardcastle explained. "You're _safe_."

It was to no avail though. "Please….that's all…..no….not _again_….just stop…._please_...," the kid begged. He was beginning to flail around on the bed and Milt worried that he'd do more damage to his already shattered body. He pressed the button for the nurse.

"Hey, Mark, come on now, listen to me. You're all _right,_ kiddo. You gotta relax...no one's going to hurt you anymore, I _promise_," the judge soothed.

In just a few seconds, the night nurse, Kim, came into the room. "Judge Hardcastle? How's Mark doing?" she asked, coming around to the opposite side of the bed.

"Uh, not so well, I think," Hardcastle began to explain. "It's like he's having a bad dream or something and he's starting to move around. I don't want him to hurt himself any more than he already is."

She saw that what the judge said was true as she examined McCormick quickly. She could clearly perceive that he was distressed and agitated. "Mark..._Mark..,"_ Kim called out to him to try to rouse him, but he was still fighting off the lingering effects of not only his ordeal but the anesthesia from the surgery as well. "Let me get the doctor on call and see what we can do for him," she said, and left the room.

"_Judge_?" McCormick called out, his eyes still closed.

"Yeah, I'm here, kiddo. You're going to be okay, you're in the hospital. Do you understand?"

"_Hospital_? No….can't be…prison…hole...," Mark muttered confusedly.

"That was a few years back, just try to sleep there, pal." Milt replied gently. "The doctor's on his way...he'll give you something to help make you feel better."

"Gotta get out….gonna _kill_ me….can't take no more…!" The young man continued on, working himself into an emotional frenzy in his sleep.

The doctor on call entered with the nurse. "What do we have here?" he asked, moving in to check Mark's chart. "Kim tells me he's a little agitated."

"Yeah, it started about ten minutes ago, Doc," Hardcastle explained.

"Let's give him another ten of morphine and see if that helps." The doctor wrote the notation on the chart and said to Hardcastle, "Probably just some post-operative nightmare. It can be pretty painful to smash up your ankle like he did."

Hardcastle couldn't believe his ears, "Did you even _look_ at him or his ER exam notes? This man was brutally beaten from _head to toe_, we're not just dealing with a smashed up ankle!" Milt could feel the anger inside him beginning to boil. "Where's Doctor Kaplan? I want _him_ to see Mark."

"It's nearly midnight, Mr…"

"Hardcastle, Judge Hardcastle," Milt introduced himself.

"Judge Hardcastle, Dr. Kaplan is probably at home asleep, which is probably where you should be. We'll take care of..." he paused to look at the name on the chart, "...Mr. McCormick. That is, if it's okay with you?"

"Judge, no….don't _let _him….it hurts...," Mark interjected, still not coherent.

Hardcastle turned his attention back to Mark. "Call Dr. Kaplan. I want to hear it from him."

The on-call doctor blew out an exhaustive breath. "There's no need to torture Mr. McCormick here any more than he already has been. Let the nurse give him the morphine, Judge Hardcastle. It will settle him down."

"No, Judge…no more….can't take the _pain,_ no more drugs," Mark begged. "Please…make him _stop_!" The judge leaned over and grabbed Mark's hand in his own, squeezing it. "Mark, hang on, buddy. This is the hospital. You're all right , son, just relax. The doctor's gonna help you." Hardcastle stood up straight and said to the doctor. "Give him the morphine, but I still want to talk to Dr. Kaplan, so get him on the phone."

The nurse prepared the medicine for injection into the IV. The on-call doctor seemed irritated by the whole situation, shook his head and left the room.

"What's that guy's name?" Milt asked Kim.

"Dr. Sauer," she told him.

"Well, that sure fits, he's a pretty sour fellow...and I really don't want him around McCormick anymore."

"It's been a long evening for everyone, Judge," Kim replied. "Mark should settle down now. Maybe you should try to get some rest yourself?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll wait for Dr. Kaplan. And I want to make sure Mark is okay. I can't even imagine what he's been through. I don't want him to be alone, especially with Dr. Sauer around." He looked down at McCormick, whose face was softening and relaxing due to the morphine. He'd stopped thrashing in the bed and his verbal outbursts were starting to quiet as well. The nurse left, and Hardcastle sat back down in the chair. Every once in a while McCormick would mumble or moan or call out 'no!' or 'stop!' It was going to be a long evening.

The next morning, the judge was still sitting in the hospital chair, reading the morning edition of the newspaper. Deeply engrossed in the sports section, he didn't realize that McCormick was waking up.

"How'd the Lakers do?" McCormick asked, his voice raspy and soft.

Hardcastle let the paper drop in his lap and gave the kid a smile. "Didn't play last night, kiddo. How are you feeling this morning?" He was pleasantly surprised to see that Mark, albeit weak, seemed to have his faculties back.

"Oh, I don't think you want to know," McCormick answered with a groan.

"Should I get the nurse?"

Mark shook his head. "Nah, I'll be all right." He closed his eyes.

"You know, it's _okay _if you need something for the pain. You've been through a helluva thing. You don't need to be a tough guy all the time." Hardcastle remarked.

McCormick didn't answer right away. He turned his head and looked at the judge. "How much do you know?"

"Not all of it, just some bits and pieces." The awkward silence returned. "You don't have to tell me," Hardcastle added to break the quiet.

"I know." He looked away from Milt and stared at the ceiling and then closed his eyes, willing himself to forget.

"We got Boller and Padilla."

"Frank killed Padilla, right?" Mark opened his eyes again and looked at the judge for confirmation.

Hardcastle nodded.

McCormick swallowed hard, then completely changed the subject. "What's the doctor say?"

"You're gonna live," Hardcastle said with a grin.

McCormick offered up a bit of a smile in return. "I was hoping to hear a little more _detail_. What happened to my foot?" he asked, noticing the sling and feeling the uncomfortable brace.

"Padilla shattered your ankle with a lead pipe. They operated yesterday, put in a couple of pins in there. I think they're going to put you in a walking cast after a few days."

"What else?" Mark asked, with a bit of a pout.

"Concussion, busted ribs, punctured lung, cuts, bruises, abrasions...you want me to keep going here?"

"Did anyone ever tell you have a terrible bedside manner?"

"I'm not your doctor. I don't have a bedside manner--I am what I _am_."

"I already knew that." Mark paused, then added, "Are you _mad_ at me?" He thought he sensed something different about the judge.

"No, I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself."

"_Why? You_ didn't do anything."

"No, but I should have."

McCormick let out a yawn, "Can we not go into this now, Judge? My head hurts. _Everything_ hurts."

"Let me get the nurse for ya, huh?"

Mark closed his eyes tightly and let out a tired breath.

"You all right there? McCormick? Why do you keep closing your eyes?"

"I'm seeing two of everything--my head is killing me."

"Okay, I'm going to get the doctor, that's enough of this. Why didn't you say something _sooner_?" Hardcastle exclaimed, standing up and walking swiftly out of the room.

McCormick didn't argue with him. His head wasn't the only thing that hurt him; his ribs and chest ached to his core, his ankle throbbed, and he swore he could feel every bruise, cut and abrasion on his body.

A minute or two later, Mark opened his eyes as he heard someone come into the room. Dr. Kaplan smiled at the young man as he picked up McCormick's chart off the end of the bed. Hardcastle was following right behind.

"Mark, I'm Dr. Kaplan. I understand you're still having double vision, huh?"

"Um yeah...it's making me kind of nauseous."

"Well, you had quite a head injury, a bullet grazed you, but the CAT scan didn't show any other damage." The doctor came around the bed and pulled out a pen light to check Mark's eyes. "Pupils are a little sluggish yet," he commented. "I think we need to give it a little more time and see if it clears up. It's not unusual to have double vision for a couple of days after a blow like this. Are you having any problems with your hearing?"

McCormick nodded his understanding about the concussion and said, "My hearing is fine. But everything _else_ aches from top to bottom."

"I understand, Mark. The ankle surgery was very successful. Dr. Hill, our orthopedic surgeon, feels that your ankle will be better than it was before," Kaplan chuckled as he said that, but he looked over to see Mark was not happy with the prognosis. The doctor went about checking over the rest of his injuries. He saw that Mark was wincing and tense as he proceeded with his exam, so he said. "I'm going to give you a little extra pain med for the rest of today and something to help you sleep--that's the best thing you can do for yourself now. _We'll _do the rest, all right?"

"Thanks, Doc," Mark said without much emotion.

"I'll send in the nurse." Dr. Kaplan gave him a smile and headed out.

"Judge, why don't you go home for awhile? All I'm gonna do is sleep, anyway, " Mark commented.

"Nah, I'll hang out, make sure you're okay."

McCormick let out an exasperated breath, "Judge, it's not _necessary_. They're going to give me something that'll make me sleep and take the pain away for a few hours...there's nothing for you to do. I'm _okay_. And I'll be better tomorrow. Then maybe there'll be only one of you, and believe me, one Hardcase is _more_ than enough."

"Look, you don't have to ask me twice, I get it. I'll go home." The judge looked away.

Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head, realizing he'd hurt Hardcastle's feelings. "Judge, I'm _sorry._ I just need some sleep. The doctor's right...it's gonna take time. I don't mean to take it out on you."

"Ah, don't worry about it. You're right, I'll let you get some sleep. I'll come back later on to check on you. You just get some rest."

Mark nodded, "I will. Thanks for understanding."

As Hardcastle left Mark's room, he couldn't help but wonder what besides the physical scars were going to need to be healed. Little did he know that, inside the room, McCormick was wondering the same thing.

After four days of having his foot suspended in the sling, the orthopedic staff finally got Mark's foot casted and started him on some physical therapy. Dr. Kaplan also wanted him to see one of the hospital psychiatrists. Getting Mark to agree was no easy task. Dr. Kaplan basically told him that if he didn't agree to the appointment he wouldn't discharge him. All McCormick really wanted to do was to go home and try to forget everything, so he finally relented and spent three sessions with Dr. Randa, who cleared him for release. So, after a ten day hospital stay, McCormick was on his way home.

The ride back to Gull's Way was quiet and tense. Hardcastle carefully tempered his comments and McCormick didn't say much at all. Any talk they _did_ muster up was superficial.

"Bet you're looking forward to being back home, huh?" Hardcastle said.

Mark shifted a little on the truck seat, adjusting the walking cast on the floorboard. "Yeah, it'll be nice."

"And only two more weeks with the cast, _that's_ not so bad?" It was killing the judge to be so outwardly polite. He just wanted the old, fun loving, McCormick back—the guy he could grouse at.

"Yeah, my heel's been itching for about the last five days."

"How 'bout I cook out some steaks on the grill for dinner, and then we can watch the basketball game?"

McCormick nodded his agreement. "Sounds great, Judge."

"Well, if you want to do something _else_, I'll understand."

"Really, Judge-- that sounds just fine. A nice quiet night and a good steak are perfect. I just want to get back to normal."

"Okay, that's what we'll do then."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

It was the same type of routine for the next several days, including a few 'disagreements' that got a little heated, but resulted in both men apologizing for blowing things out of proportion.

One of the first days back, Mark went outside and saw that the bomb shelter had been completely removed and the area was now landscaped. At first he was angry that Hardcastle had it done. He sat on a patio chair, his eyes practically burning a hole into the spot where it had stood, and his face tensed up with the recollection of everything that had happened. All he wanted was the bad memories to go away. Then he realized that was _what _Hardcastle had done--he'd taken away one of them.

Later that night he went inside and sat across from Hardcastle as he watched an old movie. When a commercial came on, he said, "Thanks for having the bomb shelter torn down."

"What?" Hardcastle tore himself away from the ad for a plastic onion slicer.

"Outside, the bomb shelter, remember?"

"Oh yeah, that. I should have done that after the cold war ended. Makes the grounds look a whole lot nicer anyway. Better resale value, you know?"

Mark was amazed that Hardcastle didn't even address the issue of imprisonment, but he was grateful that he didn't.

"It does mean more lawn for you to cut, though," Hardcastle chuckled. "But you like that _anyway_, right?"

"When did I ever say that?" Mark kidded him back. "If you'd shell out some money for a rider mower, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

"Why, so you could soup up the engine and drag race around my lawn? I've seen what you did to the _push_ mower, McCormick. Giving you a new engine to play with is like giving an arsonist a can of gasoline."

The playful banter between the two of them was something they both had missed. And there, in just that short period of time, the memory of what the bomb shelter stood for to Mark was gone.

McCormick spent the first week sleeping or hanging out by the pool. In the event of rain, he'd crash in the den and watch movies on TV all day. His body still ached, and he took advantage of the down time to heal up his wounds.

Hardcastle knew he had to come up with something to get the kid out of the funk he was in. Figuring out how was the stumbling block. Anytime he suggested anything, the kid took the comments way too personally, and they'd beat their gums at each other and then each go sulking off to different locations. Milt knew the kid needed to talk about what had happened. Until he did that, he'd never get past the memories.

But, by the end of that first week back at Gull's Way, McCormick started to show signs of coming out of things all by himself. It was just after dinner, and Mark came hobbling into the den with a dish of ice cream for himself. Hardcastle sat behind his desk looking over a file. "Is that a new case for us?" Mark asked.

Milt looked up from what he was reading. "Uh, yeah, _sort_ of...well, I'm just thinking about it, actually. But there's another file I want to look over, too. Besides, you need to get the cast off first before we go traipsing after someone, right?" Hardcastle eyed the bowl in the kid's hand.

Mark nodded and sat down in the chair. "You want some ice cream? There's plenty in there," he nodded towards the refrigerator. "I can scoop you up some."

"Maybe later. I think there's a John Wayne movie on in about an hour."

"_Whose_ file is it?" McCormick turned his attention back to busting crime.

"A guy I sent away for B&E. He's been out for nearly ten years now, but there's been a bunch of break-in's lately that fit his old style."

"Sounds simple enough," Mark said.

"Or it could be a copycat. Like I said, we'll wait till you get your cast off and take it from there," Milt continued. "Anyway, I was thinking maybe you and I could head up the coast and do a little fishing first. Pete Chalmers said he was up at Lake Chayneau last week and the fish practically _jumped_ in his boat. Whatta ya think? We can even stay in his cabin."

"Are you _kidding _me? The pictures you showed me of that place were _fantastic_. I'd love to go...that would be a lot of fun! Dr. Kaplan says he'll take off the cast on Tuesday morning; we could leave in the afternoon."

"I'll call up Pete in the morning and get it squared away." Hardcastle smiled. "Now let's see when that movie is starting."

The fishing trip was going along smoothly until the third day up north. The morning had started with a light drizzle, and Hardcastle decided to take the boat out by himself and let the kid sleep in since McCormick's stamina wasn't back to full strength just yet.

About an hour later Mark woke up and saw the note that Hardcastle had left him. He decided to make himself a good hot breakfast and just relax until Milt came back, and maybe by the afternoon the weather would break.

The cabin wasn't big, but it was cozy and comfortable. McCormick wandered around the living area and spotted what appeared to be one of Hardcastle's familiar manila files slightly buried under a couple of books that Milt had brought along. He sat down in the oversized chair next to them, picked up the folder, and started reading it.

He didn't get very far when the judge came through the door. "Hey, you're _up_! That's great! How'd you sleep?"

"What's _this_?" McCormick asked, ignoring the judge's greeting and holding up the file.

Hardcastle knew he was in for it now. What McCormick held in his hand was Tom Lamparski's report to the Department of Corrections. It was a detailed explanation of what had happened before, during and after Mark's ten days in the hole at Quentin.

"Where did you _get _it?" Mark insisted.

The judge set his fishing gear down and started to remove the slicker he wore. "Listen, kiddo, before you go and get yourself all worked up…"

McCormick cut him off, "Didn't I tell you about a _zillion _times already that I don't want to talk about this?" He slammed the folder on to the table next to him. "If it wasn't over before, it is now. Padilla is dead and Boller is back in prison. They can't hurt me anymore," he added quietly.

"That's right... they _can't_."

Mark looked up at the judge, "_Why_ then... why did you dig this up? And _how_? They told me they destroyed it."

"_Who_ told you that?"

"The Warden...he said it wouldn't be in my record. For testifying against Padilla. I gave them a statement when I was in the infirmary, after….after it happened."

"It's not in your record... that file is from the Department of Corrections' Prison Abuses Section."

McCormick let out a scared sort of laugh. "How'd _you_ get it?"

Hardcastle walked over and sat down opposite him. "Do you remember a CO inside by the name of Tom Lamparski?"

McCormick nodded, "Sure. I thought maybe he'd help me at first, but he didn't believe me--just like all the rest of them. A con's a _con_, right? None of what we say is true."

"Not exactly, Tom was investigating bad CO's inside Quentin. He needed you to help him make his case."

"What are you saying? Lamparski _set_ me up? I went through all that to catch a dirty cop and to let a drug dealer get off?" Hardcastle shook his head 'no' and was just about to explain when McCormick interrupted him. "I can't _believe_ it, I'm inside there serving time for a crime I didn't commit, and I get the living hell beat out of me...for _this_? I'm never trusting another cop as long as I live."

"That's not exactly how it happened." Milt said, watching McCormick closely. "I'm not making excuses for Lamparski, Mark, but he was a rookie investigator... he was in over his head. He wanted everything done by the book, and he couldn't get too close to you and ask the questions to make you say things he had to hear without blowing his cover. You needed to say them on your own. And you never connected Boller to Padilla. You were _close_, but you never made the connection."

"I tried to tell Lamparski what was going on," Mark raised his voice.

"It was a fine line of interpretation, McCormick. I'm not endorsing what he did. I wasn't there, and he was green--just a kid."

"_I _wasn't exactly ready for social security then either. I was scared as hell most of the time. It was _prison_, for crying out loud, and I was on the wrong side. He could have stopped it."

"Well, he did. For ten days he kept after the warden and other inmates for information, and he finally got what he needed from both sides. The warden finally went to see for himself what was happening in solitary, and he got you out of there."

Mark was confused, "And who were the inmates?"

"There was only one, your cell mate, Paul Abrogozzio."

"_Paulie_?"

Hardcastle nodded. "They saved your life, McCormick. His testimony is what put Padilla away. About eight months before you got there, Paul tried to get to the Warden to tell him about Padilla and his connection to Boller. But before he could, Padilla did the same number on him in solitary."

"He never told me," McCormick hung his head.

"That sounds familiar," Hardcastle said.

"He warned me about Padilla, though. Man, was I _stupid_."

"No you weren't, you just tried to do the right thing. There's nothing stupid about that."

McCormick leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "I'm gonna take a walk," he said, getting up quickly.

"It's raining pretty hard out there, kiddo. Why don't you wait till it lets up?" Milt was concerned, but knew that the kid needed to think things through by himself and come to some sort of personal understanding.

"I'll be okay, I just need to think. I won't do anything dumb," Mark said. He just knew he needed to be alone. He grabbed his jacket and left. Hardcastle understood and let him go.

It was close to getting dark outside when McCormick came back to the cabin, and Hardcastle tried not to let his worry show. The kid was soaked clear to the skin.

"It's still raining out there," Mark said, his teeth chattering as he stood in the doorway, staring at the judge who sat in a chair reading a book.

Hardcastle came over quickly and ushered him towards the fireplace. "You've been gone all day long out in this storm...you're gonna catch pneumonia. Come over here and warm up."

McCormick took off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and allowed himself be led toward the warmth of the flames.

"I'll make some soup for you..._that'll_ heat up your insides," the judge said, directing him to a chair. He reached for his own jacket on the couch, wrapping it around the young man's shoulders.

"Sssounds good," Mark stuttered from being cold.

Hardcastle went into the kitchen area and quickly prepared a can of soup on the stove. He brought it over to McCormick in a mug so he could hold the warm cup in his hands as he drank it down.

When he was through with the soup, McCormick said to him, "I found a cave out there."

"Yeah, there's a lot of them up this way," Milt commented.

McCormick nodded. "So, I was in there most of the time, not outside in the rain. I went pretty far inside--it got really dark in there."

Milt sat down in the other chair and began to listen. He had an idea where this conversation was going...at least he _hoped_ it was.

"It was like that bomb shelter in a way--musty, moldy smelling, pitch black. Everything came flooding back again." Mark looked over to Hardcastle who nodded his understanding. A long pause of silence passed between them. McCormick sighed. "I'll tell you what happened, and then it's over. I'm not telling it again."

**Epilogue**

The other file that Hardcastle had pulled was the one for Paul Abrogozzio. When Mark and Milt got back from the fishing trip, Hardcastle shared it with McCormick.

"What's _this_?" Mark asked him.

"It's Paul's file. I got it from Frank."

"He didn't do anything wrong, and he's still in prison, Hardcase. We don't go after guys _inside_, remember?"

"No, but I thought maybe we could get his sentence reduced for what he did."

"You can _do_ that?"

"We can try, kiddo--we can try."


End file.
